Karla Kassebaum

Last Friday night I had plans. Make dinner, hug and kiss hubby and daughter goodbye as they head to a concert, spend the evening writing in quietness. Simple. It wasn’t.

Late in the day, I called tech support to fix my printer thinking it’d be a quick fix. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty … no dinner made, concert goodbye getting closer, no solution to printer problems.

I handed sticky notes to my family:

“Can you make dinner?”

“Don’t forget earplugs.”

“Almost an hour and STILL no progress!”

“Have fun.”

My family left for the concert. I sat stuck on the phone.

“Will this take very much longer?” I said looking at the clock anxiously bouncing my leg.

Thirty more minutes passed, then sixty. I reminded myself that I could never be a tech support person–I would pull out my hair. A mound of patience is needed for that job! Clearly I don’t have that much patience.

After 2 1/2 hours, my printer printed and I hung up. Starved, I made myself dinner. Once I finally reached my office again, I lit my candles and sat down to write. After a mere ten minutes of my coveted quietness, the phone rang.

“Mom. They don’t take debit cards and that is all Dad has with him.”

“What? You mean the concert is done already?” My mind immediately went to why the artist couldn’t have sang longer.

“I want to buy a T-shirt and CD, but they only take checks or cash.”

“What are you asking me honey?” I said knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

“Can you bring the checkbook to us? I really, really want her to sign them.”

All I could think of was the 20 minute drive to the concert and the measly 10 minutes I got.

“Mom? Are you there?”

Just breathe slowly … inhale.

“Mom?”

Exhale.

“Yes, I will come down. I’ll leave now.”

Did I just say yes?

As I drove, I argued with myself.

Selfish Me: Nothing went as planned tonight.

Caring Me: Part of being a parent means learning it isn’t about me.

Selfish Me: Yeah, but I needed my writing time. I’m on a deadline!

Caring Me: What about the concerts you went to as a teen. You didn’t get autographs. She has that chance tonight.

Caring Me won. I couldn’t deprive my daughter of an once-in-a-lifetime souvenir. On the ride home, I told her how thrilled I was she got her autograph and picture taken with the artist. I meant it.

The next day, I got my quietness time while my hubby and daughter did grocery shopping errands for me. It’s what being a family is all about–we help each other out!

Independence. It’s something all kids long to exert.

At two, my daughter got into my eyeshadow. She “knew” what to do even though she looked like she had two black eyes. I did what any parent would do — grabbed my camera and took a picture!

At four, she insisted on getting her bike unstuck all by herself. Never mind that she straddled the gutter with her training wheels. I was only allowed to watch as she peddled faster and faster, to no avail, to get the bike moving. I silently smiled.

At eight, she boasted how much older she was than the kindergartners we taught Sunday School to each week. I chuckled to myself when she told the kindergartners, “When I was little …” 

At eleven, middle school began and she didn’t need us to walk her to the bus stop anymore (although we were “allowed” to come if we brought the dog with us). I brought the dog as often as possible.

Now at thirteen, it’s all about going alone to the mall with her friends. As I write this, I’m sitting here at the mall’s food court while my daughter and her friend exert their independence. I allow thirty minute increments of this freedom before they have to check in with me again for the next round. I show my gratitude when they return on time.

As I reminisce, I remember how much I’ve enjoyed every stage of her growth. With each new phase, come new experiences and challenges. 

Things are different now — I’m not allowed to bring a camera to the mall for pictures and I got the please-don’t-embarrass-me-look when I gave her hand an I-love-you-squeeze in church today. (I sometimes forget what it’s like to be thirteen.) That’s okay. Her budding independence is a joy and an absolute kick! Sure, as with every phase, it carries it’s share of challenges. But now I sit and listen as she shares her passions and dreams with me. I beam when she makes a responsible choice. I’m touched when she gives me something she’s written that blesses my heart. I proudly watch her teach the kindergartners each Sunday morning — by herself — while my husband and I stand in the backdrop to offer help when she needs it.

Growth and independence — two beautiful things. As parents, we need to embrace it in our children. If we channel it in the right direction, there will be nothing our children cannot successfully do!

As parents our roles are numerous. One important role is being our child’s ultimate cheerleader.

I recently caught the tail end of a documentary of a famous recording artist. Immediately, the support and encouragement of the mother shined. When others discredited the talent of the young aspiring artist, the mother beamed proudly with firm belief, and forever nudged her child to press on.

As the documentary lingered in my mind, I couldn’t help but evaluate my own abilities to be my daughter’s cheerleader. At times, I succeed. Other times, I miss vital opportunities.

What is an opportunity? It’s a pause or a moment in time where we are given an opening. In being our child’s cheerleader, it’s an opening to spur him or her on to greatness. The adventure comes in not knowing what the final greatness is to be, but looking for glimpses or sparks just waiting to be further ignited.

A cheerleader isn’t reserved for the athletic department. A cheerleading parent finds the beauty in a child’s first piano piece, the vulnerability in a child’s poem, the tender heart of a helpful child, or the strength in a child’s individuality.

Life is full of openings to encourage our children. Rather than see missed opportunities behind us, let’s capture each possibility that skips our way.

“Don’t wait for extraordinary opportunities. Seize common occasions and make them great.” — Orison Swett Marden