Adversity. Don't follow my first … or second instincts!

Last week school had a Father's Day celebration. It was the first for the school and the kids. To say that Buddy was excited would be an understatement. However, we only received the notice one week prior to the celebration and GK couldn't change his work travel plans. When we realized that GK couldn't attend, my first instinct was "oh no, maybe I can go to take videos". Upon realizing that it probably wouldn't make sense for me to be there as it was for fathers afterall, my second instinct was "should I keep Buddy and Little Guy at home and do something special with them".

I was more concerned with Buddy because he's at the age where he can remember everything while Little Guy is still at the stage where he half understands and remembers things in spots. Buddy is also very observant and I know he would notice the difference between himself and those whose fathers attended. Although the motivation behind my instincts were to protect, if I had carried out my instincts, I would probably have dug myself into a hole where I had to explain to both kids why they weren't going to school that day and admit that I was worried about them having an unpleasant experience. 

In that same week, I chanced upon this inspiriting talk by  Andrew Solomon on How the worst moments in our lives make us who we are, which was a reminder that adversity and unpleasant experiences are a must in life if we are to learn and grow as a person. Of course, I shouldn't introduce them unnecessarily just to challenge my children and tough them up. On the other hand, I shouldn't overly protect … using "but they are still so young" as an excuse. If I carry on like, how old would be old enough for my children to experience adversity and forge meaning in them such that they become their potential? 

While growing up, I always wished my parents stayed together and that we were a tight unit. During the holidays, while in college, I sometimes held onto that wish whenever I thought about not having a home to return to … no place where I still have my room (or shared room with my sisters) and my stuff. No, all my stuff was with me because I didn't have a home. The truth was, I did have a home - it just wasn't a physical house, rather it was the feeling of being with my family - my sisters, my parents (separately). Once I realized and made peace with that, I no longer wished for anything but exactly the childhood I had. It is part of and makes me who I am today. 

The moral of this story is that I would be wrong to rob my children of opportunities to forge meaning in their experiences, pleasant and unpleasant, to create their own identities. I would do better at supporting them in that endeavor.