Lessons In The Ordinary & Extraordinary
When I became a parent, it was obvious to me that I would be my kids’ first and most influential teacher—at least in the early years of their lives. I knew that it would be my husband’s and my job to teach basic life skills, be their moral compass, and prepare them for the world as they entered each new phase of life. I’m happy to say that both my teenagers know how to do a load of laundry, cook a meal, and clean up after themselves (whether or not they choose to is another story). They are both incredibly polite to adults, can look a server in the eyes when ordering at a restaurant, and have a conscience that stops them from crossing major moral and ethical lines.
What was less obvious to me—or perhaps I was oblivious to altogether—was that they, too, would act as my teachers along the way. In the early years, they taught me things like patience. If you’ve ever had a potty-training standoff with a toddler, then you know! I don’t know how many bottles of baby powder were emptied, markers were used to draw on anything other than paper, or toilet paper rolls unraveled. Later, they taught me how to let go. When I watched my son walk into kindergarten on the first day of school, it was a lesson that hit hard! Or the first time they wanted to go somewhere without a parent around, or giving them age-appropriate privacy. These were all lessons in letting go, just a little bit at a time. And I am well aware that one day, in the not-so-distant future, I will have to let them both go for real, as they will each find someone they want to spend the rest of their lives with.
As the years wear on, I am faced with learning much more meaningful lessons, like admitting to my kids when I’m wrong, apologizing for my anger if it was out of line or misplaced, offering grace when they admit they’ve messed up, and extending forgiveness even when it isn’t asked for. But every once in a while, my kids will do something so spectacularly ordinary that it gives me pause to consider what I have just witnessed. I’m then left to ponder the lesson hidden in there.
My daughter was asked to start learning dressage one summer. This would be the discipline her team would be competing in during the upcoming season. She wasn’t thrilled about it, but because her coach asked her to and her friends were doing it too, she agreed. In September, the first two shows of the season were back-to-back—they were a complete disaster! She messed up her diagonals, her toes were pointed down, and she just didn’t look confident. It seemed like everything she knew about riding suddenly fell out of her head. She placed dead last in both shows. October brought her third show. It wasn’t as bad, but she still had some major issues to work on. Then came December, her final two back-to-back shows of the season. The outcome of these shows would also determine if she went on to compete in the Regional Finals. In her fourth show, she rode beautifully and took first place. The following day, at her fifth show, we thought she had the best ride she’d ever had. Unfortunately, horse show judging is subjective, and for whatever reason, that judge on that day just wasn’t feeling her ride. She took home second-to-last place. However, with her first-place win the day before, she secured her spot at the Regional Finals.
In January, we were at the Regional Finals, where only the top rider from every class gets an invitation to the National Finals. So, with the entire season and a trip to the National Finals on the line, she needed to take first place in every class she rode. It was the longest and coldest day of the season by far, but we waited all day and into the night. Finally, when it came time for her classes, she swept the competition (the same exact competition she had ridden against since September) and officially punched her ticket to the National Finals.
Now, I get it—I’m her mom, and she just accomplished the most amazing thing in the entire world, right?! No. She did something that was spectacularly ordinary—she just got out there and rode, like she had done hundreds of times before. At 11 years old, I don’t think she understood the pressure and weight of it all. She’s definitely at an age now where she does get it and internalizes it.
Honestly, as a parent, I would have been perfectly happy with the story ending right there. If she and her team went to Nationals and didn’t perform well at all, we still could have chalked the season up as a win. But the story didn’t end there…The first day of competition at Nationals was individuals. The first part of her ride was flawless, but at the very end, she made a silly mistake. She knew it immediately and also knew how to correct it for the following day. Individuals left her with an 8th-place finish overall. That’s 8th in the nation!!
The following day was team day, meaning your ride counted for points toward your team. Simply put, the higher you placed, the bigger your score, and the team with the highest score at the end of the day was the National Champion. Her teammates rode exquisitely, securing 1st & 4th place and 2nd & 4th place in their respective classes. They set the standard that day. Our daughter was the last of her team to ride, and quite literally, the championship was riding on her (though we didn’t tell her that before she rode). All she had to do was block five other riders from scoring any points. So all she had to do was place in the top 7. That’s it! And that’s exactly what she went out there and did—she placed 7th for her team that day, securing her team the National Championship.
All of this was such a whirlwind and nothing my husband and I had ever felt before. The next several weeks, we all lived in this fog of glory. It wasn’t until a few months later that it gave me pause to think: Where is the lesson for me in all of this? It’s true that we definitely learn more from losing than winning, and trust me, there have been many, many losses since then. But surely, in the midst of all of it, there’s a lesson for me as a parent.
I think there are probably several lessons that I can draw out of that experience as the years go by—perseverance, dedication, and so on. And I will probably reflect on this story on many occasions as the years go by. More importantly, I think, is that in every experience my kids have, in and out of the saddle, I remain open to learning and growing as much, if not more, than I expect them to. But not just in extraordinary circumstances, but in the ordinary circumstances of life, too. The daily, seemingly mundane day-to-day. I should be open to learning everything I can from my kids before they grow up and are learning lessons from their own kids.
“Children are a gift from the Lord;”
Psalms 127:3a