Brave

I am not brave.

I'm not. I shy away from new things.  I cringe at loud sounds, and loud people. 

I prefer avoiding people. I stay home rather than face the crowds, even when it is not Christmas. I often break out in red splotches when I have to speak to a stranger. I lose my train of thought midsentence. I feel awkward in most social situations. So I keep to myself, so as not to risk being rejected.

I take the stairs because I am afraid of getting stuck in an elevator. Unless I forgot my inhaler, because an asthma attack is much worse than being stuck in an elevator.  If anything hurts that doesn't normally hurt, I automatically assume that it is a heart attack.  Except if it's my big toe.  Then I automatically assume that I have the gout.  I had to stop looking stuff up on Web's, because all those obscure diseases frightened me.

I don't stay out late if the parking lot isn't well-lit.  I walk with my keys held in my fist, pointed outward, even if I'm just heading into Walgreen's.  If I hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, I am almost always certain that it's zombies.

If there is anything, anything at all for me to get nervous about, I'm already there, my head tucked tightly under the covers, waiting for the Monster Du Jour to lose interest in me.

My child makes me brave. 

He smiles at me, and looks at me as if I were a superhero. His superhero. Because of that trust, I am brave. I find myself holding his hand and stepping out into the world, smiling at strangers and wading into crowds. I scoff at my aches and pains. I let the spider crawl on me. I start conversations with strangers!

I embrace all the things that I fear, while holding that little hand. I can handle whatever comes our way.

I am brave.



3.) Write a post inspired by the word: brave.

My Brave Boy

My normally thrill-seeking son has suddenly developed fear. He's afraid. I have no idea where/if he learned this somewhere or if it's just developmentally appropriate. He hasn't had any traumatic experiences involving stairs. All I know for sure is that he is afraid to go up the stairs by himself. My husband and I have wondered what we can do about it.

Is it better to face your fears or avoid them? I've always felt that it is best to face your fears, and I have learned from experience that when you face your fears they often disappear. Except for cockroaches. I try to avoid those on the general premise that they are icky. But that is my way of dealing with my fears, formed from many years of freaking out. How do young children decide what to be afraid of and how to deal with that fear?

The other day, Zane had left a favorite toy on our bed upstairs. All he had to do was run upstairs, walk into the bedroom, and grab the toy off the bed. He just stood there at the bottom of the steps, and whined that he wanted his toy. I told him that if he wanted the toy he would have to get it. My reasoning was that if Zane really wanted the toy, he would go upstairs; if he didn't really want the toy, he would drop the subject and find something else to play with. Zane whined some more, but would not move from the bottom of the stairs.

I then did one of the hardest things I have ever done. All I wanted to do was hold Zane's hand while we walked up the stairs to get the toy. All I wanted to do was hug my boy, keep him safe. Instead, I made Zane go upstairs by himself. If he is ever going to be an independent person, my son is going to have to solve some problems on his own.

I hugged him tightly, reminded him that he was very brave, but that he would have to go upstairs to get his toy by himself. I promised that I would wait at the bottom stair for him. I rehearsed it with him: up the stairs, into the room, grab the toy, and back down the stairs. I told him that he could do this, that I believed in him.

Then I watched him walk up those stairs, and every time he looked back at me, I encouraged him. He got to the top of the stairs, ran into the bedroom and back out with the toy. He ran down the stairs, and as he hit the bottom stair he started crying. It may have been relief; I was crying too. I hugged him again, told him again that I knew that he could do it. I was very proud of him.

I was also proud of me. Of course, after all that mama-trauma, I had to have some chocolate.