Sidewalking

“There is no certainty; there is only adventure.  Even stars explode.” – Roberto Assagioli

During Quinn’s first therapeutic horseback riding session, I got to be a sidewalker, which meant I was one of two people responsible for holding on to a special belt fastened to his waist to help keep him upright and positioned correctly on his beautiful, Icelandic horse – or put more simply: I got to be the one to make darn sure he didn’t fall off and hurt himself.  (No head injuries today, not on my watch, thank you very much.) 

During Quinn’s second session, I was encouraged to walk by his side, always within view, but the actual safety duties of sidewalking were left to Esther and Liz, two wonderful, very experienced volunteers at the horse-farm.  Quinn and I both survived, although every ten seconds or so Quinn would call out, “Mama!”, sort of like Piglet saying “Pooh” - for no other reason than to be sure of his existence.  “Yes, Quinn, I’m right here!” I’d respond, confirming my existence, and at the same time probably revealing more than a hint of my own separation-anxiety.

During the third session, I was given the option of tagging along while the trained professionals took my boy for a walk on one of their trails or of staying behind in the tack room with an enormous tray of pastries set out to make the long wait for your child’s return palatable.

As much as I love a good Danish - or three, I opted to tag along.  Well, I guess I did more than tag along, because “tag” implies following.  As in walking behind.  And while I intended to tag along, I ended up horning in on Beth-the-amazing-riding-instructor’s space, walking through muddy ditches and sharp brambly bushes in an effort to never leave the horse’s (read: Quinn’s) side.

During the fourth session, I was gently reminded that it would be great if Quinn could get comfortable on the horse without the need of my constant presence. I could watch, but I would need to STEP AWAY FROM THE HORSE.  When I tried to protest, even Quinn’s Icelandic mare gave me the stink-eye.  As you might have already guessed, this  was not the first time in Quinn’s four years on earth that I’d been encouraged to give him just a wee bit more space.

In the world of typical children this phenomenon is known as “helicopter parenting” - a hovering mother unable to let her baby cross the monkey bars without a bed of feathers laid out below.  But in the world of special needs children, this phenomenon might more aptly be called, PTSP (post traumatic stress parenting).  Now, I’m not a big proponent of comparing relatively mild emotional stresses to the kind of trauma soldiers face in war, but (and I’m not mentioning any names) if you have ever left your child in the care of trained professionals, say, in a neo-natal intensive care unit, only to return to find your child in the throes of status-epilepticus, a life threatening condition in which the brain is in a state of persistent seizures, which was most likely caused by a trained professional’s eight hour delay in the administration of critical medication - then you know why I use such serious terminology. Watching your child tumble into darkness, seeing just how tenuous their tether to this world, and knowing that the difference between life and death might truly rest on how closely you monitor their every moment… well that might not be an invitation to the Post-Traumatic-Stress big leagues, but it guarantees a good long run in the minors.

The simple truth is: the professionals don’t always get it right, and while I know they mean well, and I respect their training, and I’m grateful for the services they provide, it only takes one perilous blunder on their watch to dismantle a mama’s delicate sense of trust.  The PTSP rulebook says it is not only folly to trust others, but negligence … a rather convenient and not altogether invalid excuse for justifying my maternal hyper-vigilance to family, friends, horses.

However, in my saner moments (though they are few and far between), a more acute and radical truth takes hold, a truth so true we’ve lost sight of its profundity and turned it into a sound bite, a bumper sticker, a slogan for cotton-blended T-shirts; two little words that would seem to imply chaos, but for me, instill a strange sense of order:

S#!t happens.

Case in point:  During her first visit to New York City, my sweet little Oklahoma-born-and-bred mother-in-law was happily chirping along Pearl Street when an un-baked-baking potato came flying out of nowhere, landed slap dab in the middle of her head and knocked her out cold.  Her head.  Out of all of the heads in gotham.  What are the odds?  If anyone reading this is a statistician, I would truly like to know.  And not because a mild concussion from a stray potato is the craziest thing that can happen to a person; but because it is, as my youngest stepson would say, “so totally random” that it highlights the deepest truth of all: ain’t none of us driving this bus. 

And so maybe it really is okay, every once in awhile, to just let go of the steering wheel.

I mean, sure, we should eat our fruits and vegetables, and we should definitely wear our seatbelts, condoms and helmets, we should double tie our laces and hold the knife boy-scout-style when we walk, we should keep the matches on the top shelf and the medication under lock and key, but we should also recognize that the notion that we have any real control is a grand, cosmic ruse. As scary as it is, we should pull the curtain on our trumped up belief that anything in this life is certain, we should sniff out our inner control freak and expose that puffed up little mouse on stilts for what he really is:  terribly afraid. 

Why?  Because sooner or later life will draw its line in the sand, separating all that we can control from all that we cannot and only by finding the courage to cross over into the vast expanse of uncertainty will we be able to experience what it means to be truly alive. There’s terror, sure, when wandering through those mysterious netherlands, but there’s also a deep peace in surrendering to the unruly nature of existence, in knowing and accepting that each and every one of us belongs to Life and Life will have its way with us, flinging potatoes at our heads when we least expect it, but also sending butterflies to brush up against our shoulders when we feel most alone.  

This is not to say that I will ever put Quinn on any horse that he’s not ready to mount.  And with each new challenge he faces in his life, I will continue to be his sidewalker until I’m given the stink-eye and asked to mosey along, but whenever I can, I will put my PTSP manual on the shelf, I’ll take my hands off the wheel, I’ll step away from the horse and I’ll let my son ride ...