How To Raise A Child

I said nothing at the time.

At a children’s birthday party, a mother announced her four-year-old son had asked for trumpet lessons. Several parents complimented the boy’s interest in music.

“No!” she responded. “I’m not listening to hours of trumpet practice! I told him he could learn the violin or piano.”

I felt terrible for the curious boy who was intrigued by a trumpet.

The sound?

The shine?

The keys?

Only he knew. Somehow he saw himself through that instrument, but when he asked for help from the most likely person, his mother threw a pie in his face.

She taught him his dreams had to be her dreams.

No matter their age, children know about their lives, their purpose. They feel it, even though the dream might seem odd to parents.

It isn’t.

When Maggie was in third grade, she wanted to learn to ice skate.

In North Carolina? We weren’t even in the mountainous part of the state that got subzero temperatures. Where would I find a frozen surface in Winston-Salem?

Still, I realized something invisible tapped her shoulder. I considered her life as a Chinese adoptee. As a toddler, the one Chinese person she saw on American television was Michelle Kwan. Maggie faithfully watched her compete in the Winter Olympics, imitating her movements across our carpet. In first grade, her Famous Americans report was on the champion figure skater. One Christmas I gave her a Kwan snow globe.

Every child wants to be like someone, and Maggie identified with the only Asian face she saw in a sea of white ones.

So I asked around, discovering the fairgrounds froze an indoor court for three months each winter. Cliff and I enrolled her in private lessons, not sure our athletically reluctant daughter understood what she was bargaining for.

Maggie took this seriously because it was her decision, not ours. She was intrinsically motivated to succeed, earning four badges from the Ice Skating Institute for mastering a series of skills. Alone on the ice, she won, not ribbons or trophies, but personal success.

Awards end up in cardboard boxes.

Self-confidence lives forever.

I saw her confidence in action one Sunday afternoon.

The skating arena was open to the public. A small girl wobbled along by herself in the crowd and finally fell flat. Indifferent people whizzed by the sprawled beginner who could not get her footing.

Maggie saw her and raced around the rink. She knelt down and helped her stand. The little girl clutched Maggie until they reached the rail.

There was our courageous daughter–winning a heart, not a trophy.

For Maggie, it was never about costumes or competition. None of that interested her. But confident skating allowed her to test herself in another way, a generous way.

That’s when I understood her dream. Ice was her way of taking an inevitable first journey on her own.

Children need to feel brave.

That’s the point of parenting–helping children test their strength in ways we might not choose.

We’re simply required to believe.

I hadn’t bargained for the countless cold hours I’d spend sitting in a dimly lighted rink, but I did it because her dream defined who she would always be. She inspired me. No parent expects that to happen.

Refuse to be like that selfish mother who sank her son’s ambition.

Instead, hand over a trumpet.

Or ice skates.

Then stand back.

This isn’t about you.