the growing edge

Adam Gopnik wrote recently in The New Yorker about learning to draw. In describing the psychological difficulties involved, he articulated something I've noted often since becoming a parent: we adults have the luxury of simply avoiding those things we don't do well (or don't know how to do at all, and would rather not suffer the humiliations required to learn them). When you spend a lot of time with children - or, in this case, attempt to pick up a new skill in adulthood - you remember what it's like: "I was filled with feelings of helplessness and stupidity and impotence that I had not experienced since elementary school. Why was I so unable to do something so painfully simple?"

Of course that uncomfortable confrontation with our limits begins long before elementary school. Young children are asked to learn so much, every day, and some things are inevitably more challenging than others. Cowardly grown up that I am, I tend to take long, meandering routes around any foreign task smacking of difficulty in my path. My kids, however, don't enjoy the same degree of navigational control.

I'm sure I've made reference to the growing edge in previous posts. I learned the expression years ago from a psychologist who talked about the comfort zone, the pain zone, and that perfect in-between where change and development happen: the growing edge. Children live on the growing edge all the time. It's their job. As parents, we ideally support them in finding that slippery place, somewhere between complacent ease and a difficulty so great as to actually impede growth. But how to know where the lines are?

On his first day of soccer camp, Gabriel clung to my arm, begged to be picked up, and cried. He sat down on the field and refused to participate. When he was finally coaxed into playing by his kindly, energetic coach imported from the UK (who could refuse that accent?), he edged onto the field, then immediately burst into tears when another kid kicked over the cone he'd been considering kicking over himself. That was it. Done for the day.

Frances has soccer camp before Gabriel, so every morning we sit in the shade and watch her play with the bigger kids on a beach towel before his camp begins. Yesterday I brought books and crayons, and today I brought a box of Legos. Gabriel and the other younger siblings share toys, climb in and out of their mother's laps, and gradually wilt in the heat. It's a lovely scene, and it's something Gabriel knows how to do. He's a champ at Legos and reading books with me. It feels good; it comes easily. Not so resisting using his hands when it comes to playing with an enticingly big ball.

Day two was slightly better. I resorted to bribery, and promised a video after nap time if he would participate. He joined in for about two-thirds of the hour-long camp, but I could see the immense psychological and physical effort it required. There were more tears. I stood nearby, and watched the coach bark "No, no Gabriel, stop crying, you can do this!" and somehow he pushed through the awful feelings and kept going. It may have been the first time an adult responded that way to his tears. He's used to his mama and his maternal teachers at school, who wrap their arms around him and listen as he talks about his feelings. This was entirely different. Apparently there are no I statements on the soccer field.

Weirdly, it didn't bother me. I think it might have been a positive change. But was it the pain zone? Knowing our limits is so hard; knowing our children's limits is even harder. How do we know when a challenge is too painful for a kid to tolerate? On Monday and Tuesday I was tempted to let him observe camp from the safety of my lap - firmly in the comfort zone - but some other part of me felt it was important to encourage his independence. (Which just barely outweighed the part of me that yearned to hoist him onto my hip, wipe away his tears, and tell him he never has to do soccer camp again. But oh, friends! He is a baby no longer.)

Today, Wednesday, was the best morning yet. There were more pleas to play in the shade with Legos instead of play in the sun on the field, but he did it. For the first time, he allowed himself to become engaged and consequently felt proud of his swift kicks. He cried too, but not as often, and not as tragically. The truth is that life on the growing edge does involve some pain. Learning something new is so hard that it hurts - at least a little. So this morning, watching Gabriel play from eight feet away (instead of right next to him), I didn't worry too much about pushing him past his limits. He's pretty resilient, after all.

But I did bribe him again, with ice cream after lunch. I wanted to reward the Herculean efforts he is making at First Kicks soccer camp; I wanted him to know how great it is to try something even when it's scary and hard.

But in retrospect, I think maybe he didn't need ice cream to know that.