Over-protective

I'm not much for sappy little quotations and I generally delete before reading any email forward that comes my way with a subject line reading "A Mother's Heart" or any variations on that theme. I love my children fiercely, but I just don't go in for all that gooey greeting-card sentimentality. That said, as much as it pains my inner cynic to admit it, one of the more oft-circulated lines about parenthood truly resonates with me. It's from Elizabeth Stone, and I'm sure most of you have seen it one place or another: "Making the decision to have a child--it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside your body." Every time I read it, all I can do is nod and agree, Yeah, what she said.

I have three kids ranging in age from nine months to nine years, and whether it's a bump on the head or a blow to the ego, any injury to them feels like an injury to me. The sight of their little faces crumpled in tears or narrow shoulders hunched in disappointment and defense sends a pang right through the core of me. Like most parents, I find that I would do just about anything to spare my kids even a moment of hurt.

And that's where the anticipation comes in.

Over the years I've gotten pretty good at recognizing situations that are likely to lead to someone getting hurt. I can sniff out a precarious-looking bike jump in the driveway or an "exclusive" third-grade girls' club like a bloodhound hot on a fugitive's trail. I've developed that mother's sixth sense that lets me know what my kids are thinking almost before they know themselves, an invaluable asset in anticipating and warding off potential disasters.

Often the crises averted are fairly minor in the scheme of things. For instance, last week my husband brought home a carton of what looked to be orange juice but turned out to be a foul-tasting sea-buckthorn blend (before you ask, no, I have no idea what sea buckthorn is). When I opened the fridge to get milk for my morning coffee, I saw the carton sitting there and quickly moved it to the back of the top shelf so that my daughter wouldn't see it and help herself to some, only to be disappointed by the taste. She especially loves orange juice but we rarely have it, so I could easily imagine her eagerly pouring a tall glass only to have it all go awry. I agree, it's a little thing, but I was happy to have avoided the upset.

Other times the stakes are greater, especially, it seems, where my daredevil son is concerned. While my older girl seems to have inherited my caution gene, my boy hears every admonition to "be careful" as a challenge. Every barrier must be jumped, every wall must be scaled, every fence must be climbed, every open space must be traversed, and all at breakneck speed. My pleas of "Slow down, slow down, slow down!" go unheeded, and the resultant bumps, bruises, and scrapes are legion. The first time he chipped a tooth--I'm not kidding myself that it will be the last--he was scarcely a year old, and he's already had more black eyes and fat lips at age three than I've had at more than ten times his age. His devil-may-care recklessness causes me no end of anxiety. Even with my super-mama powers of anticipation, I can barely keep up with him most days.

Though I consider my kids' safety a critical responsibility of my job as a mother, I have started thinking lately that maybe I should relax my vigilance a little bit. My husband has a much more laid-back approach to child-rearing, and the kids don't get hurt any more on his watch than they do on mine. I've noticed that my eldest is a bit uncertain about trying new things and that she's not as confident as I'd like in some situations, and I can see that has come directly from my "caution gene." I've started listening to myself when I'm out walking with my son, and my repeated entreaties to "be careful" and "slow down" make me sound much more like a nagging buzzkill than a caring mother. I want my kids to grow up with a healthy respect for the myriad lurking dangers of the modern world, but I don't want them to live in fear. I've realized in the past months that my overly cautious ways may be borrowing more trouble than they're preventing.

With all this in mind, I'm resolving here and now to try to dial down the worrying and stop hovering over my kids' shoulders protecting them from all of life's pitfalls. As hard as it is for a mother to take, skinned knees and hurt feelings (and, alas, broken bones and broken hearts) are part of growing up, and I want to give my children the freedom to live life to its fullest. Of course, I will still insist on holding my little guy's hand when we cross the street, but if my daughter wants to be best friends with a girl who said something mean to her and made her cry three years ago, well, I guess that's her risk to take.