Trares
Sitting on the top of the sledding hill, my son grasped his first opportunity for independence.
And I suffered the first of many more rebukes of assistance and guidance.
Anthony has always been more cautious as a child. New experiences require some feeling out and examination, rather than jumping right into a situation.
As a parent, that is preferred. Thus far, it has meant fewer random injuries leaping off the playground, or coming back from the backyard covered head-to-toe in mud. Anthony isn’t overly scared of things, but has to really examine what’s going on before he gets into it.
Last winter, we had the first opportunity to take him sledding. We had always pulled him around the yard on the bright red sled he received for Christmas, but didn’t feel comfortable taking him down a slope.
But a new park opened around the corner from our house, with a series of modest yet still thrill-inducing hills. So after a February storm dumped a few inches, we took him out.
Anthony loved it. Though his first time down elicited screams, by the end of the run, he was laughing hysterically. We went down dozens of times that morning.
Each time, he demanded that my wife or I ride with him. He still required that protection and sense of security, and we happily joined him.
That sledding trip became a frequent topic of conversation for Anthony. He’d bring it up any time a few flakes started falling, or if we were in the garage and spotted the sled. One July day, when the temperatures pushed into the 90s and snow a distant memory, he turned to me out of nowhere and asked, “Daddy, when can we go sledding again?”
This winter had been a dud, snow-wise, until recently. A few inches covered the ground in white, and we decided it was enough to sled.
Anthony ran up the small slope to the top, while I trudged behind him. Resting at the top, I got the glider situated, and prepared to sit down in the back before he got in front.
Instead, he grabbed me and declared, “I want to go down by myself.”
I’ll admit, it stung. Didn’t he need my help anymore?
But just as quickly, I was proud. Anthony felt ready to do this himself; that was a big deal.
I nodded, held the back of the sled, and helped him sit down. He was squealing and wiggling, as much from nervousness as from anticipation, I think. And with a small push, he was off.
He flew down the hill, skidded at the bottom, and toppled over. Dad instinct kicked in, and I slid-ran down, asking if he was OK.
The massive smile on his face told me he was. As did his breathless repeating: “Again, again, again!”
In the end, we spent about an hour on the hill. Anthony went down by himself a dozen or so times, and we went down together a few as well.
I know this will be the first of many, many times when my help is no longer needed. And that’s fine. When he does need a hand, I’ll be ready to give it to him.
When we got back to the house, cold, snow-covered but happy, Anthony turned to me. “Daddy,” he said, “can you make me hot chocolate?” It’s good to be needed.
