Lessons from a blue fish

I cry at the movies. I sob, in fact. I am not one of those quiet criers or those people who pretend they have something in their eye; I cry outright. Usually it's the tender moments, the death of a relative, or a dog dying, or the breakup after a long romance. The usual stuff.

So imagine my surprise, as well as my toddlers', when I started sobbing in the middle of 'Finding Nemo'. And not at the beginning when the eggs all get eaten along with their mother, but right in the middle, when Dory yells out to Marlin to 'just let go'.

Allow me to elaborate.                           

I was brought up in a strict South American household. My father was the head of the family, and the boss of us all. His word was law, and unfortunately he was an extremely anxious man who believed that the world would do us great harm, and kill us. If we stepped out the door, we would die.

So I grew up believing that. I never went to any school excursions, or camps, or parties. I had one friend who lived across the road, and the only reason I ever saw him was that he would ride his bike to my house.
i did however go to one school excursion. Within minutes of arriving, I went exploring with my friend down to the creek, and my 7 year old little sister followed. Sandra was obviously much more experienced than me at climbing anything or balancing, or walking on level ground. So she balanced her way across the creek on a large wooden plank that had been placed across it. Above it, hung a thin guide-wire. I followed, and managed to get to the other side with great difficulty.

Then my little sister followed. There was a gap of about 2 metres to the creek bed. There was not much water, but there were large river rocks.

Before I had a chance to tell her that I would come to help her, she had already stepped onto the plank, lost her balance, and fell heavily on her back, as she tried to hold on to the wire and it snapped.

Her head hit a large river rock, and she started crying. I slid down the river bank, and helped her up, dusted her off and consoled her. And told her that under no circumstances was she to tell on me. I knew I'd be in trouble.

Within metres of where all the adults were congregated (this being the only reason I was allowed to go on the excursion, the presence of parents), Tati started to cry. Dad demanded to know what had happened, and as I was 4 years older than her, I was responsible for her welfare, and therefore bore the brunt of the disaster. The 45 minute drive home was punctuated by yelling, guilt and being told that my sister 'could have died'. 'What were you thinking? How could you? You irresponsible, useless...etc'. Thus ended my first and only experience of a school excursion.

When I had children, I was exquisitely aware of the difficulties that never being allowed to do anything creates in a person. I knew that I needed to make different parenting decisions for my children, and this involved the 'Letting go' exercise.

My daughter was in kindy, and I knew that later in the term, a bus excursion was planned to the museum. My instinctive brain was telling me that she would die. Plain and simple. There were no degrees, just certain death. And it would be my fault for giving permission.

I had already learnt that children sometimes need to fall over in order to realise that they will get hurt, and that natural consequences are the best teacher. But I didn't see the need to see her die simply to show her that excursions kill.

And then Dory stepped in. My hero.

'Let go!' She said.

And Marlin answered that how did she know that nothing bad would happen.

'If you never let go, you will never have anything at all happen'.

Followed by sobbing.

I realised that by depriving my children of experiences, I was not allowing anything at all to happen to them. For them to experience joy, and achievement, and all the good things that life brings, they needed to do things.

However, for someone with such deeply ingrained guilt and anxiety, “letting go” was not a passive act. I wouldn't just open my hand and allow my child to drift away. For me, the act of letting go was that of prying my fingers away from their grasp one by one, telling myself that nothing would happen. Their teachers actually cared for my child's welfare, the likelihood of anything happening was infitessimal, the opportunities for growth were endless (mainly for me); and finally, if they did die, it would be a tragedy, but it shouldn't change my decision to allow them to experience the world.

I stood at the bus with the other parents on excursion day, my heart pounding in my mouth as I told my daughter that she would have a fantastic time and how exciting her day would be. I smiled as the bus pulled out and waved enthusiastically as she waved back. And when she was out of sight, I bawled my eyes out and told myself that this was the right thing to do as a parent, that I would be ok.

And I was. The opportunities to “let go” multiply as children get older. The first day of school, the first time they have to do a test and fail, the first time they have to tackle a problem on their own. Recently my daughter started University. She asked me if I could come with her to 'O week', the orientation week. My instinctive brain pounced at the chance. My mother's voice laughed: “Sure, except you'd be the only person in the whole University to bring their mummy with them. I don't mind, but you might get a bit embarrassed. I'll be right on the other end of the phone if you need anything”.

And she went, she thrived, she conquered. She grew. She experienced.

I survived.

This has been one of the most important lessons I have needed to learn as a parent. My children know now that I am a “worry wort”, and they make fun of me, and reassure me. But I pride myself in never depriving them of life experiences. They have grown up well rounded and aware. And really, really brave. I have even noticed that the process of letting go has become more automatic, and more passive.

Allow your children to spread their wings, it's good for you. And if you haven't seen the film, do!