Little Mare
“It’s a lot of people to fall in front of,” Mare says thoughtfully.
“It is,” I agree.
“Is it a winning-kind-of-show?” she asks.
Oh here we go, I think.
“It will be just like a regular lesson. Your instructor will be with you. You’ll be in the ring, and you’ll do the things you normally do. Only it will be in front of a lot of other people, and a bunch of other kids will do it, too. At the end, they’ll hand out ribbons. Some of you will get one. Some of you won’t.”
“The blue one is the winner.”
“Yes,” I say. And I know it’s here.
I’ve heard the stories: rabid soccer coaches, lunatic dance moms, anxious, sleepless children in tears.
Of course, competition is really there all along. It is, in fact, the third branch of parenting governance, after Us and Television.
“Is she cute in this sonogram?”
“Is she an early talker, tell me, she’s an early talker, right?”
“Will the other kids laugh at this lunchbox?”
“Does she look normal? Is it maybe time to start brushing her hair regularly?”
But now it’s really here. Mare has been invited to show a horse.
She’s been riding since she was about five and a half years old. Which is to say, April. She posted on her first lesson, fell in love, and we signed her up for the summer.
And then all of a sudden the damndest thing happened. That baby? The cute bald one I gave birth to last week?
“She made that horse trot!” her instructor breathed. “I had nothing to do with it! She just dug in there and told him to do as he was told!”
I grinned proudly (with one half of my face) while I fought the urge to drag her off the horse and run her home to her bassinette where she belongs. The ticker of Parental Insanity was going full-tilt. “What-if-she-fails-what-if-she-falls-CHRISTOPHER-REEVE-dear-God-what-was-I-thinking?”
“So,” I am saying, after breaking the news in the car on the way home, “it’s a lot to consider.”
“I could fall.”
“Yep,” I say. “You haven’t been thrown yet, but you will someday, it’s a guarantee. And it could happen at the show.”
“I would be very embarrassed.”
“You wouldn’t have to be,” I say. “Everybody falls, and everybody has bad luck and you could choose not to be embarrassed. But that’s a very hard thing to do.”
“I would be embarrassed.”
“Okay, that’s a good thing to know. It’s a risk you’d take if you decided to do the show.”
“Do you think I could win?”
Yes.
“I don’t think the ribbon is a good reason to do it. I think you do it because it’s hard. Because you want to challenge yourself. Because it is fun. I think if you do it for the ribbon, that’s a bad reason.” She is silent. “Do you remember how Daddy ran the marathon?”
“Yes.”
“Did he win?”
“No.”
“Do you remember how crazy-happy he was, and how proud we were of him?”
“What do I wear?” she asks. I’m really excited about this part.
“Jodhpurs, boots, a show shirt and coat. And your hair braided in pigtails with ribbons, you can pick the color.” (I can already see her, hat and coat, glorious pink ribbons in her yellow hair.)
“I think I would want blue,” she says. “To match the ribbon if I won.”
And then, just like that, I get it. She might fall. She might fail. Bad things happen. But her mother didn’t build a life by thinking it might be nice to win if nobody else minded, and Mare’s not going to either.
“If you want to go for blue, I’m right there with you,” I say. “I’ll make sure you have what you need, I’ll help you eat right and be rested, and get lots of practice, and I’ll scream my heart out for you in the stands. We’ll put blue ribbons in your hair for luck. But hear me now — if you fall off that horse, pee yourself, pick your nose and cry in front of the judges, I will still be so freaking proud of you for getting in there.”
She’s laughing. “It would be pretty funny if I peed,” she says. She frowns. “Do you think I would?”
“We will run you to the bathroom before,” I say. “You won’t pee.” (You’ll just feel like you might. And you might throw up. And good God, you really could fall. Or be humiliated. Or lose and stop loving it.)
But you’ll never be any good if you only amble along, never aiming for best just so you don’t have to settle for good enough.
Or so your mother never has to watch you be disappointed in yourself.
As Mare’s baby-cuteness is relegated to the photo albums, I have clung to her sister’s toddlerhood. But I am utterly surprised at how challenging, frightening, exciting this time is as my firstborn literally enters the arena.
She dresses herself, can make herself a sandwich or a bowl of cereal, put herself in the car, and even to bed. But she has never needed me more.
Her relationship with me will become her relationship with herself, and I constantly find myself asking, “What do I want her to be telling herself as she rides?”
You can do it. You can go for blue. It’s okay to fail, but it is so freaking okay to try.
Before she went to bed, Mare made a list of the pros and cons of doing the show. I have told her it is entirely her choice to make, but she must decide by Wednesday when we have to file the paperwork. I hope she does it.
But I can’t help thinking, how much harder is this going to get?
July 26th, 2008 at 12:35 am
I love the look of determination on Mare’s face.
Well done, mom.
And, by the way, I feel like such a sap checking over here that you’ve written something when I have my own writing to get done.
July 26th, 2008 at 1:14 am
I loved this entry - let us know what she decides about the competition.
I love the photo of her on the horse - she looks so tiny, but the look on her face exudes such determination! I am quite jealous - I always wanted to have riding lessons.
July 26th, 2008 at 1:20 am
Her relationship with me will become her relationship with herself, and I constantly find myself asking, “What do I want her to be telling herself as she rides?”
If you only knew how incredibly wise you are in your mothering. It makes me want to know your story of how you got to be where you are and who shaped you to become the woman you are. I know Duckie must have been a big part of that process.
I needed to read a post like this today. A post that gives me courage for my own journey. Thank you.
July 26th, 2008 at 11:21 am
I had tears through this whole post. You really are such a wonderful mother and I truely enjoy reading because I see my life in what you write. Beautiful and good luck to her!
July 26th, 2008 at 1:01 pm
Very timely post for me. My 6 year old is getting into riding, and these thoughts are already going through my mind. Thanks.
July 26th, 2008 at 5:11 pm
Good for you and GOOD FOR MARE! That kid is going to keep taking the world by storm, isn’t she? You’re doing such a good job.
July 26th, 2008 at 6:57 pm
I know exactyly how you feel. My baby (4 1/2) jumped off the diving board for the first time today during swim lessons. I was so proud and scared. She was kind of wimpering saying I’m scared and I said it’s okay you don’t have to do it and she’s like “Oh no, I’m doing it!” And she did. That’s my girl!
She’s been asking about riding lessons so I better not let her see these cute pictures.
Congratulations.
July 26th, 2008 at 9:24 pm
awww!
I still remember my sophmore year in high school riding a horse for the first time. I did undoubtly fall the yr after but, still got right back up on that horse.
July 26th, 2008 at 9:50 pm
Seriously, how do you know how to do this mom thing so right all the time?
July 26th, 2008 at 11:57 pm
I’m proud of you. Sure I’m over uber proud of Mare, but it’s you who I am proud of.
and feel better lady would ya.
You who are raising two strong amazing daughters.
You get a blue ribbon today
July 27th, 2008 at 12:29 pm
I’m proud of both of you…I only wish I had an ounce of that sort of self-awareness. It might make me a better parent!
Great job Mare!
July 27th, 2008 at 6:40 pm
Her relationship with me will become her relationship with herself
I loved this post. And best of all, this line. The whole thing made me cry.
July 27th, 2008 at 8:51 pm
Ah, the tongue of concentration. You know Mary is serious!
We all know what a great Momma you are but heavens, Liz, did you give up on handy wipes with Roo? hehe…
July 28th, 2008 at 11:03 am
Oh, that Mare. So wise. This is the part that made me cry.
“If you want to go for blue, I’m right there with you,” I say. “I’ll make sure you have what you need, I’ll help you eat right and be rested, and get lots of practice, and I’ll scream my heart out for you in the stands. We’ll put blue ribbons in your hair for luck. But hear me now — if you fall off that horse, pee yourself, pick your nose and cry in front of the judges, I will still be so freaking proud of you for getting in there.”
Wow.
July 28th, 2008 at 11:04 am
Handy-wipes are no match for the Roodle! Way to go Liz! Your girls are amazing. What wonderful women they will grow up to be!
July 28th, 2008 at 1:04 pm
I wish I had half… no. A QUARTER of your mommy-gift.
You are raising two incredible young ladies there, Liz.
July 28th, 2008 at 1:38 pm
Oh my cuteness. What a doll on that horse. Beautiful post, as usual
July 28th, 2008 at 8:51 pm
you are brilliant. does that make you feel all sheepish, the compliment? Really, I’ve been scrolling through the Twas Brillig Blogroll and find something so endearing and real. Way to go random stranger!
July 28th, 2008 at 8:52 pm
ooops. I mean, “FOUND something so endearing and real…” geez, I shouldn’t rush through and not edit…my grammar is horrible unless double-checked…
July 29th, 2008 at 10:56 am
Dear Liz,
You made me cry and laugh at the same time! My four and 1/2 year old is in that “lost baby stage” and it is heartbreakingly beautiful to watch. Yes, they have never needed us more, and we have to rise to the challenge to. That “Oh-my-God-Christopher Reeves thing is just eating away at the inside of my brain. Waht if….he fails… he cries… he doesn’t make friends… he falls off and kills himself.. someone kicks him in the head…. Then I have to say “Stop it!” and get on MY hoarse - the one that says “brave supportive Mom here!” and show him how much I love him, and how “ok” it will be if he gets disappointed. (or if I do!)
Thanks for having great insights into life.
Cheers,
Margaret
July 29th, 2008 at 1:37 pm
Beautiful post. You have captured it perfectly, this thing we call motherhood. And, even though the most important thing is that she tries her best, I hope she wins! (I know, I know, not supposed to say that.)
July 29th, 2008 at 10:47 pm
Don’t do it! The first show is the first step on the road to poverty. Horse people are nuts. They show in 100 degree heat and maybe jackets will be optional and maybe not. They show in the rain, and you have to sit and watch. I’m still working to help fund my 2 granddaughters’ riding addiction and probably will keep working until I drop dead of heat exhaustion at a show. Think carefully. Encourage bowling. It’s air conditioned and the equipment’s cheap.
July 29th, 2008 at 10:57 pm
Your daughter is PHENOMENAL. At five, she holds her own beside the 14 year olds, with a smile and a hug and a knowing sort of gleam in her eye. I love your blog! It makes me feel…like I’m okay. Like my frustrations and follies and jaw-dropping moments are not existing in a vaccuum. It’s a wonderful reminder of the unspoken sisterhood of mothers out there doing the very best we can to build strong new women every day, and being glad that there is vodka in the world.
July 30th, 2008 at 1:55 pm
jwg totally made me laugh. My son is interested in hockey, I really understand that comment.
You are beautiful Liz. And those kids of yours. And. Sigh.
Love you.
July 30th, 2008 at 10:29 pm
JWG made me laugh, too, Ei. And then cry, lol.
August 9th, 2008 at 1:06 am
[…] example, ne particular quote from Da Momma really stuck with me. In a post about her almost-6-year-old daughter, she writes, “Her relationship with me will become her […]