I found myself in a ridiculous argument with my five year old yesterday. As we stood in front of the strong man contest at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, we were caught in a sort of ‘Yes, I can!” “No, you can’t!” “Yes I can!” argument that sounded a lot like Ethel Merman.
I don’t know why the little guy had been captivated by this particular game. Perhaps it was the sheer manliness of stepping up to the contraption, hoisting a gigantic mallet, and trying to ring the bell. Perhaps it was some primal instinct to compete. Perhaps it just looked fun.
And for some reason, I was dead set against him doing it. Sheer perversion on my part.
We stood for some minutes like that, locked in a bizarre, pointless battle, and I finally started asking myself WHY? What am I arguing against? There’s nothing profane, corrupting, or disgusting about this game. Hit the target, ring the bell. Even the insults painted on the face of the tower weren’t particularly bawdy. The thing only cost a dollar or two. He couldn’t hurt himself. Finally, I surprised myself. I said, “You know, I’m sorry. There’s no reason you can’t try this.”
I gave him the money and let him stand in line all by himself. He tried to pick up the bigger mallet but couldn’t get it off the ground. There he stood, my pint-sized Robin Hood, his skinny little arms wailing through the air. WHAM. the disc bounced past the first mark. The assembled crowd cheered. WHAM. It bounced again. And a third time. And there he stood, no worse for wear, proud of his accomplishment. And I was proud of mine. I’d let him try something at which I knew he could not succeed. And you know what? It was just fine.
For the rest of the day, I let him try whatever game took his fancy. Drench a wench. Frog toss. Crossbow. He never won a prize but you know what? He never complained that he hadn’t. And I learned how to watch him try, and not worry about him if he failed. Heck, I even let him wait in line for the giant slide–and go down it–all by himself.
We had a great time at the festival. I think we both grew up a little. It’s hard to let go… he’s all I have. I’m a single mother. He’s my only son. I want the best for him. Sometimes, the best isn’t winning. It’s trying.
great story sweetie! i can picture the whole thing. funny how protective we get of the ones we love…….big and small, boy or dog…….i’m glad you took the chance, even gladder kofe handled the play without prize so well!
L~ I’ve been suffering from a serious lack of RenFair this year. It’s horrible. I only went that once.
It’s a great place with kids, too, if you’re not squeamish about bawdy people. Frankly, I think it’s a much healthier attitude towards sex than not…
As a former resident of the DC area, I miss the MDRF. One season, prior baby, I spent every weekend visiting. I met some of the most wonderful caring people there.
Phooey! I’m still trying to figure out where I got my penchant for British understatement… *Scratches head*
Abigail, the first time my grandfather let me whittle with one of his (razor sharp) pocket knives, I did something dumb and it folded up on my finger. I still have the scar to this day… and I have a very healthy respect for pocket knives!!
And remind your kids that volcanoes should be vinegar and baking soda, not flour and water. But you can make a cheap play dough out of flour, water and salt…
Christina:
Great post! Its funny how often we forget to let them try stuff. Now if I could just learn to say no when mine decides to “make a volcano” which turns out to be a lot of flour and water and which I’m still chipping off the sink!
Still working of being brave during the “whittling” experiments however. That resulted in a trip to the ER for stitches to the thigh after a slip of the knife.
Abby
Sometimes? More often than that, I’d say!