Tenacity

lesson from an eight-year-old and her grocery bag parachute

On a random Monday after school, my daughter asks me, “Can you look up how to make a parachute on your phone for me?”

It would be a lie to say this question catches me off guard. Zoey asks me to look things up on my phone frequently. She is a girl with a lot of questions. She is curious about motives and actions. She wants to know the who, what, when, where, why, and how of almost everything. My daughter is not the girl who is satisfied with the responses, “Because I said so”, “I don’t know yet”, or “We’ll have to wait and see.” She isn’t good at waiting. She would like to see it now, please.

As her mother, this constant questioning can be exhausting. Some days by the time we walk out the door for school, which is only 45 minutes after I tip-toe into her bedroom, kiss her forehead, and say, “Wakey wakey eggs and bakey,” I’ve been bombarded with at least fifteen questions.

“Why does school have to be so early?”

“Why can’t we just homeschool so we can do school in our pajamas?”

“Do we have time to go over my spelling words?”

“Can you order us pizza for lunch on Thursday?”

“Can we play with the Priors after school?”

“Mommy, will you please pick us up early today?”

I’ve lost count of how many questions I’ve answered or how many reminders I’ve given her to eat and finish getting ready. I can’t tell you how many times I say in one week, “Zoey, eat another bite of your pancake please.” It’s like she doesn’t have room in that brilliant mind of hers for anything but questions.

Many mornings, after the kids exit my car in the school parking lot and race to the front doors, I sit in the stillness and momentarily replay the last two hours in my head. Was I kind? Was I patient? Did I make her feel like her questions were too much? How can I do better tomorrow morning? Apparently, Zoey isn’t the only one with many questions bouncing around her brain. My daughter and I are not so different it seems.

On this random Monday after school, I set the laundry down and push my own running list of questions aside. What time should I put dinner in the oven? Should I make mashed potatoes too? Did I remember to print the negative heartworm test from the vet? Should I go to the bank tonight or tomorrow morning? Did I remember to text that friend back? Does everyone know how much I love them? Then I turn to look my daughter in her eyes. “Why?” One simple word and her idea comes tumbling out of her almost faster than her mouth can keep up with. She has decided to test if she can make a parachute for her baby elf.

“Yes, I can look it up but first I have another idea,” I tell her.

I will teach my daughter the importance of trying to figure things out on her own.

So I fire a few questions her way.

“Can you picture a parachute in your mind?” I ask.

“Yes.” She responds confidently.

“Ok, what materials do you think you’ll need to make one, and do you think we have them here?”

She doesn’t bother answering before her feet carry her out of the room propelled by the idea already forming in her mind.

I smile and return to folding the clothes. I still have a basket of clean clothes to fill and a load each in the washer and dryer. Five minutes later, Zoey is standing back in front of me. The wind in her sails has deflated some. “Mommy, I need something big enough to make a parachute, like clothes. But it has to be a circle. I can’t find ANYTHING in my room.”

Most days this is where I’d pull out my phone and Google a plan for her. But today, maybe because I have laundry to get back to, or maybe because I want to be a Fun Mom™, I ask, “Do you have an old t-shirt in your room that doesn’t fit anymore that you could cut into a circle?” The wind picks back up. She’s running back upstairs without saying a word.

About half an hour later, she emerges from her bedroom skipping into the living room and declaring she is ready to try the parachute she made. There she stands, proudly holding a pink shirt cut into a circle, attached with white yarn and duct tape to the container of a toy you get out of the fifty-cent machines in the front of stores.

“For the test run, I’m not going to put Hope (her baby elf) in it, so she doesn’t get hurt!” Zoey declares.

Then, she stands up on the arm of the couch and carefully holds her balance while she lets the parachute go. It falls to the ground fairly quickly, and her face does not hide the disappointment. Before I have a chance to respond she jumps down from the arm, grabs the parachute, and rockets toward the steps while yelling, “I need to make a bigger parachute!”

I unpause Scandal and fold another pair of Easton’s sweatpants, placing them carefully on top of the growing stack. I’m two loads of laundry in now.

After another half an hour or so, she arrives back in the living room. It seems both her parachute and her confidence have grown as she quickly climbs onto the arm, ready for the second attempt. The parachute ascends to the rug a little bit slower this time, but I can tell it is still not slow enough for my sweet girl. Zoey hops down, grabs the parachute, and runs upstairs without a word again.

After another forty-five minutes and three upgrades to the parachute, Zoey has finally decided she needs to switch parachute material. This time when she asks me to use my phone to help, I quickly consult Google for choices. She settles on a plastic grocery bag, grabs one from our kitchen pantry, and heads back up to her bedroom.

Ten minutes later, I am standing in my living room with the front window open, chatting with Zoey, as she climbs the tree in front of the window with the new parachute tucked safely in her coat.

Once Zoey reaches her desired position, I pull out my phone, ready to record the adventure. We count down from three and she releases the plastic bag from her hand. She beams, the wind returning to her sails, and exclaims, “I did it!”, as the parachute floats slowly to the ground.

I often see myself reflected in my daughter. A few weeks ago she walked up to me, asked for a hug, and started crying. When I asked what was bothering her, she responded, “I don’t know! I just feel sad!” I stifled my laugh because I couldn’t have related more. We both define the word Hangry, and an immediate shift can be noticed in our moods once you feed us. The way we interact with people is usually directly related to the mood we’ve interpreted from their word choice, body language, and facial expressions. We are both dreamers. Our heads are always filled with ideas. Half-written essays or knitting projects, and countless art projects scattered around every room in our house. Raising her has been one of the most humbling experiences of my life. It often feels like God has blessed me with an eight-year-old version of myself.

Except for one thing. Zoey has a tenacity that I lack. Her determination is both impressive and infuriating. Once she sets her mind to something and decides she’s going to finish it, well, she’s going to finish it. If something doesn’t work out quite like she’d hoped, through gritted teeth and tear-stained cheeks, she is going to try again. She doesn’t think her ideas are stupid. She isn’t worried about if someone has done it better than her before.

She is a bit of a perfectionist and can be hard on herself when she makes mistakes. She’d much prefer that her idea work out exactly as she’d planned the first time. But usually, it just takes one small reminder from me that failure is just a chance to attempt something new before she’s off to try again.

I think about this as I record her parachute floating slowly to the cold ground. I think about it as I see her smile light up her entire face. I’m still thinking about it as her feet, in too-big boots, guide her down from the tree and she comes running inside yelling about how she can’t wait to show her dad and brother when they get home. I feel her pride like it is my own.

The next morning after I’m home from school drop-off, I pick the discarded parachute up from the floor in front of the couch and place it carefully on the table next to my desk so it is ready for whatever adventures Zoey has in store for it after school. Instead of heading downstairs to wash the breakfast dishes, I head to my desk and sit down in my trusty yellow chair. I light the candle that resides on my desk, turn on one of my favorite instrumental playlists, open the Google doc, and let my fingers on the keys lead the way. If the words aren’t quite what I expected, just like my daughter, I’ll begin again tomorrow.