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Can we stop and get a pack of gum, she asks as the five of us make our way to the car after a quick errand. The air was cold, an April day that felt like January. We are wearing winter coats and scoffing at the weather as we climb into the car. She points across the street toward a gas station, we can go over there, she says, we have testing at school this week and we’re allowed to have gum.
Chad navigates the car out of one parking lot and drives across the street into another, stopping outside the gas station. I climb out of the car, with Chanelle trailing behind. I reach into my wallet and pull out a couple of dollars and place them in her hand, I’ll pay for it now, I told her, and you can pay me back when we get home. She tries to push the money back into my hand, an attempt to avoid the inevitable exchange of money and, more intimidatingly, the eye contact that would happen with the woman behind the counter. I stop in the middle of the parking lot and tell her that if she doesn’t want to make the purchase, she doesn’t want the gum that bad. She relents and takes the bills in her hand as we walk into the store together.
*******
This is a scene that is played on repeat in our family, or with particular family members, often. The battle of “you-do-it-for-me-no-you-do-it-for-yourself”. A far cry from the “I-do-it” of the toddler years. The stakes are higher, the risks greater, the rewards, better.
*******
Chanelle and I walk into the store and she surveys the brightly colored packages before choosing the one that she wants. I walk to the edge of the aisle with her and then stop and motion her toward the checkout where she would complete the transaction on her own. She looks at me with a mix of fear and anger and grabs my arm to pull me toward the front checkout with her. You’re coming with me, she insists.
My will is stronger, my stance steadier.
The woman behind the counter notices our standoff and smiles as she motions Chanelle toward her, I can help you, she calls to her with a kind and inviting tone. I stand back and watch my daughter pay $1.59 for a pack of Extra bubble gum, before she turns back toward me, face flush with a mix of embarrassment and accomplishment.
*******
Later that night, after dinner, I’m standing in the kitchen after the rest of the family had scattered in various directions. Chanelle appears beside me as I’m wiping messy counters and scrubbing dirty plates. We talk about the gum, the woman behind the counter, me making her walk 10 feet by herself.
It was uncomfortable, she tells me.
You need to get comfortable being uncomfortable, I tell her.
She gives me her best scowl, the one that only she can do (well, only she and I–she got it from me), why would anyone want to be uncomfortable?
I smiled as I looked as my spunky 10-year old and refrained myself from high-fiving her and yelling, you’re right! Let’s wrap a cocoon of blankets around ourselves and then maybe a few rolls of bubble tape and finish it off with some nice foam pieces!
Because on most days, that’s how I feel.
I let the silence sit between us for a moment and thought about how I could explain to my 10-year old that being uncomfortable is how we grow. Being uncomfortable bears fruit that we could never grow in the safe places. Stepping into the unknown waters allows waves of understanding to wash over us, leaving us dripping with confidence. I thought about how discomfort teaches us much about how strong we really are. How it unveils the reserves we never knew we had stored. Discomfort gently shoves us into the deep end and proves, Look you can swim!
I didn’t say it, though. My mind wandered, instead, to an job I took on last year. Out of my wheelhouse. Different. Scary. I was brave in my “yes” and timid in the follow through. The discomfort felt like too much. Chad came along side me. Walked right beside me–not 10 feet behind–whispering the entire way, you can do this.
I did it. With him. My blanket of security.
In reality, on some days I rock the comfortable-being-uncomfortable thing like it’s a gig I’ve been doing my whole life. I plow through an entire day of unknowns, unforeseens, and unexpecteds like I graduated with an advanced degree and as valedictorian from The University of Surprises. The day ends and I pat myself on the back and celebrate the success in my own quiet way.
However, on most days, I fall short of my best self. I fumble and fume and feel anxious and unsure. On my worst days, I scowl and stammer and resist and pull on Chad’s arm to walk beside me–not 10 feet behind.
I haven’t figured it all out yet. On some days I get it right. On other days I get it wrong. And, I guess, I just hope that as the days keep moving maybe that scale will more to the “right” side than the “wrong”. I hope that on more days I settle into the discomfort, rather than flee from it. And maybe that’s it? Maybe bravery is a simple choice we make day by day or even minute by minute. Maybe it’s not something we are or we become, maybe it’s simply something we are working toward, always becoming. . . when we choose.
*******
I thought about all of this as Chanelle stood beside me in the kitchen and I decided to keep my lecture to myself. It wasn’t the right time. How could she get it when I’m still trying so desperately to get it? Instead, I let her put her pack of gum into her backpack as a simple reminder that on that chilly day in April, she survived being uncomfortable, and it paid off.
