Thursday, 25 July 2013

Legs Eleven.

Last week I took Max to an interview at the high school he wants to go to next year. Neither of us were prepared for how intimidating it would be ..... the place was as big as Hogwarts. Max whispered:

"Mum, I feel so small."

I whispered back:

"Me too mate!"

We were led into an office where a man in a suit directed all of his questions to Max. I sat there, willing myself to not interject, to not answer for him. Max fumbled a bit, repeated himself, then really listened to the questions and answered them as honestly as he could.

At one point, right in the middle of an answer ..... Max visibly sighed, straightened himself in his chair, and apologised.

"Look, I'm really sorry that my voice sounds so funny it's just that I feel really nervous."

I tear up even typing that because you know what that is? That's the sound of an eleven-year old boy owning and naming his feelings in the middle of a highly stressful situation. I almost burst from pride and love. The interviewer quickly responded beautifully, really respected what Max had to say, and everything ran smoothly after that. (We hoped.)

A lot of people grow up not even being aware of their feelings and why they feel them, let alone identifying and naming them. It's one of the healthiest, most beneficial things we can teach our kids. A true pathway to understanding yourself.

Yesterday Max got the letter in the mail to see if he was accepted. He tore it open and he is, and he buried his face in his elbow to cry. I've never seen him cry from relief and happiness before. It is a joy to get to be a part of his life.

Max woke my heart up from a big slumber, all those years ago. Sometimes I lay down next to him at bedtime and my heart grows warm like E.T. and Elliot. Max teaches me more than I could ever teach him.

I am so lucky. I am so lucky. I am so lucky.

(But I can still teach him a thing or two about handball. ACE!) 

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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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