My son Diego thinks he is a rock star. Being one of the oldest children at our school has fed his rock stardom, and at six years old the kid jams a mean air guitar to his preschool audience.
So it was no surprise that he was convinced our school was going to win something big at the Fairchild Tropical Garden Challenge. It was also no surprise that he convinced me to drive him and his brother to the awards ceremony held on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Miami. The Fairchild Challenge is a yearlong project where each school plans, plants, maintains and uses a garden as a learning tool. There is more to it than that, and if you are interested, you can visit them here. Our school goes up to kindergarten, and being the eldest ones, Diego’s class led our gardening efforts. They came up with their own country: Kind-er-landia. It had a flag and they even had a national anthem to the tune of “we will we will rock you” which Diego helped create.
A group of us head to the awards ceremony with the spirit of rock stardom in all of us. I too am convinced we were going to win. After all, didn’t my prodigious son help create an anthem? Hadn’t I invested hours both as a parent and as a teacher to that garden? The entire school participated – we even had eighteen month olds watering the flowers. How cute is that?
We get there and the place is PACKED with hundreds of kids. We find a space near the stairs leading to the stage. The award ceremony starts and we get ready to inherit our rightful place on that stage except our name is not called. I start noticing that though some individual awards are age-based, the ones Diego qualifies for are school based. And the schools present are bigger than ours and they are ELEMENTARY schools. That is, their eldest students are fifth graders competing with our eldest class of kindergarteners. I am taking this personally. Who the heck do these 5th graders think they are anyway?
It finally dawns on me that we don’t have a chance, and after close to an hour of seeing other schools win, doubt finally enters Diego.“Mami, what if we don’t win?” he asks me.
“I don’t know son,” I answer.
This is my cue to scramble for some wise life lesson that my son will soon be painfully learning. This would be his first major disappointment and I want to be ready. I think: we learn more from failures than from victory; the joy is in the journey not the destination; the important thing is to compete and have fun. New lessons to him – stale to me. A consolation pizza party sounds much better.
And then comes a category that is basically the “thanks for trying really hard but you didn’t get the big prize” category. Sixteen schools would be recognized for their effort. It was an “A for effort” award. In my arrogant, annoying, sometimes cruel mind I label it “the loser award.” And of course, we are one of the schools called.
The announcer says only two representatives per school are allowed on stage and Diego’s hand immediately, without hesitation, goes up. His teacher has no choice but to let him go with an equally eager friend. They get up there, two kindergarteners with a deer in headlight look amongst a sea of “graders” holding their glass-framed diploma. He comes back to our group, regains control of his nerves and returns to rock stardom. He won’t let go of the award. I bet every picture taken has Diego in it. He is emphatically proud.
The kind word for what I feel is compassion but really I feel pity. Here is my poor kid feeling so proud of an award that just means he participated, not that he won. In my mind that does not make him a winner. I don’t say anything and let him bask in the victory that at least in his own mind, exists.
The awards ceremony ends and our name is not called again. By now it is late. It is past dinnertime and almost bedtime. As we are getting ready to leave, a rainstorm blows through Miami. “Great.” I think, “Why on earth did we come all the way here? To lose and now to get soaked?”
Our car is parked pretty far away – we need to run through the garden to get to it. How more miserable can this be? We begin to run and the rain starts to get stronger. The laughter that comes from Diego and his buddies running around this garden on a torrential storm is divine. It comes from inside and fills me with joy. It is pure, and innocent, and contagious. It is so monumentally moving that I almost cry.
I realize that today I was the only loser. Diego really is a winner. He never stopped believing in his potential, he got up on stage to get his award, and now he was rejoicing in the rain with his brother and friends. He really is a confident rock star. He lives in the moment and does not doubt his achievement with the garden just as he doesn’t doubt his running in the rain. He simply revels in it.
On the other hand, I was there complaining about getting wet, disappointed with what I labeled as a loss. I belittled my son’s achievement because it didn’t match my expectation of what should’ve happened. I lack humility. He got up there, said thank you, and is celebrating in a natural, wonderful way. I struggle with the ability to accept a compliment, a praise, or an award. I lack the graciousness of just getting up there and enjoying the moment instead of judging it.
My son was my teacher today. I learned I did not have to protect his ego nor coddle his upset. He didn’t have any. Instead he taught me how to handle mine. In the rain I stop, I let go of judgment, listen to the squealing laughter and laugh myself. I sing and jump and splash in a puddle with them because we are happy. Because just by being present at that moment, by letting myself be taught by a six year old, I am a rock star too.
