I had one kid who thought he was the prince of thieves. He made bows out of bamboo and string, and arrows out of whittled sticks. All pre-dawn of course, on the half constructed verandah, in sub zero temperatures, typically clad in flannel PJ’s and bare feet. The colder the better for him. He was (and still is) exhilarated by the extremes.
My youngest was a fisherman from the day he was born. Bending nails to create fish hooks as soon as he could manage a hammer. He was intuitive and skilled, with the patience to watch and wait. Never one to conform, but with a fierce independence and a clear determination.
My firstborn needed to ride, but not just ordinary riding. He needed to ride FAST, on one wheel preferably, and skid to a sideways halt in a spray of mud, water, and giggles. His energy was mischievously contagious, as long as it was harnessed cleverly, somewhere in that murky unknown…the elusive space between creative independence and structured security.
I battled with this as a mum. I still do. The ever changing balance….the fear of stepping back and watching from the boundary. Working out how to allow them the freedom to grow, equipped with wings to fly and confidence to experiment, but also being connected enough to know when roll out the landing pad.
It’s a scary thing, letting go.