He balances on the running board, blocking the open sliding door of the van, his distress evident only in his hunched shoulders. After numerous reminders, days and weeks and months of reminders, and “do you have your backpack” checks as we pull out of the driveway, we are outside of the elementary school, engine running, late to take Nate to school, late for work, without the backpack.
“My math homework,” he says uncertainly to a point somewhere near the school roof. My flighty, anxious, particular little boy stands in front of me, unable to grasp this wrench in his ordinary routine. It's breaking my heart a little bit.
“You'll tell Mrs. F you don't have it today. It's okay.”
“My snack.”
“You won't have one today.”
He nods miserably.
“Lunch?”
“You'll have to tell the lunch ladies you need hot lunch on credit. They will let you if you ask. I can pay for it this afternoon, but I'm not going in now, I don't have time.” This one is the big deal, I know. I can still remember the dry mouth fear of my nine-year-old inner child having to ask some unknown, nameless adult for help.
This is our second time through his concerns and I am standing firm—a good little love and logic mother. I've read the book, the bible of letting children suffer the natural consequences of their behavior. A lot of it makes sense to me as a parent. If I rearrange my morning to go home and get his backpack, then he'll never feel the sting of forgetting his backpack and he'll never REMEMBER his damn backpack on his own.
“I have to go, honey. I love you. You can do it.”
He sighs deeply, but he doesn't protest or beg. He just shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets and shuffles along the tarmac toward his class. I watch him until he disappears in the door, wondering how the homework conversation is going.
It's something about his grim acceptance, I think, that causes me to swing out of my way driving back up the big hill from Nate's school. I don't even have to open the back door, the pack sits forlornly on a boulder lining our driveway, it's blue checker pattern bright against the winter grays. If he had cried or shouted or blamed me for the forgotten backpack, I would have gone straight to work, but his responsible forbearance in the hunch of his still-so-little shoulders undid me.
Walking into his classroom, I see him light up and the first smile of the morning fill his face. “You brought it!” he gasps.
I kiss the top of his ginger head, letting the high-pitched second grade energy crash around us. “You owe me,” I whisper into his ear.
At the door of the classroom, he slips his hand into mine. “I'm sorry if you're late for work, mom.” With a wink, I tease him that I'll miss my coffee, but it's okay.
It's true I bailed him out. Maybe I'm an enabler or the dreaded helicopter parent. He didn't learn first hand the consequences of forgetting the things he needs. He did learn what it feels like to have someone love him enough to help if they can. He did learn what it means to have people in his life who will rearrange their day a little to bring him relief from unhappiness, not every time, but if it's possible. Surely, like everything, it's a balance? That's the love in the Love & Logic rubric. Otherwise, his father needs to stop bringing me the spare keys on the rare occasion when I lock us all out of the house.
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