There's something magical about watching your kids race to the finishing line. When I went to Saanvi's sports day, I was among the fifty-sixty odd parents, hunched at the edge of my seat, shifting uneasily, watching from a vague distance an adorable line-up of tiny kids at the starting line of their big, or rather, only momentous event for the year. But then a ridiculous analogy danced in my head briefly. It was something I'd read in a book earlier about dancing monkeys.
And that made me feel really uneasy.
I'll not deny it. I did, even if for a minute, ask myself this. Am I pushing my kid, really early on in her life, into getting into the winners' stand, just to prove we're exceptional parents? That morning, I did incentivize/bribe her with a visit to the mall and a surprise gift, if she were to win. I mean, what was really keeping me at the edge here? Sure, I want my kid to win and make me proud. But she's just three and half and it's safe to assume that she's pretty much oblivious to the race of life. So then the win is just for me, right? Is it my need to show to the world, "Oh look what a multi-faceted prodigy my kid is! Or "Well, don't make big of it but yea, she's practically the next P.T Usha." Oh, I'd remember to upload her picture with the winning trophy with touchy-feely messages that'd get all the peer parents saying, "Bravo! Great parenting right there!" Or maybe it's the want of a mushy anecdote on her little win to tell at the family dinner table thirty years from now, one which will get me all teary-eyed on the dinner napkin. And what if she doesn't win? What makes me lose my cool, skip a heartbeat, sink back in my chair in dismay when my child doesn't win? What makes me give excuses for her, blame it on the sweltering heat or even her loose strands of hair that may have doused her otherwise Arjuna's resolve to get to her target? What makes me blatantly call out the cruelty of competitions at such a tender age if my child loses the first three spots on the winners' stand by a small margin?
There was something calming in these largely cynical reflections on children that barged in through my unsuspecting mind, one after the other. You may wonder why I let myself get swayed into such pessimistic thoughts moments before my little girl, in the midst of all the buzzing excitement and ceaseless laughters, ran to the finishing line. Of course, as parents we want to inspire and encourage our children to find their potential, give everything their best shot and hope (and cheer violently) for them to succeed. And the inherent goal of being in a race is to taste the glory of coming first (or atleast in the first three spots) at the finishing line, right?
But something took over me that morning and the uncomfortable bolts of anxiety that ran through my body gradually died down. The atmosphere became a little too subdued for a racing event. The little kids stood in the heat, squinting at the sun, their attention directed to every little thing but the race. Some even did this little jiggy to the popular runner ballad that was playing at the time. And then it all began. The shrill whistle woke me up from my meditations.
But the rush to the finishing line was only a haze.
Instead, I slowed down. I watched the kids sprint as fast as their little feet could take them. They kept looking out for each other on the way. When they reached the mid-line, they had to pick oars made out of cardboard, hang them around their neck and sprint forward. They were so determined to do it right that some double-checked to see if it was hanging right. They looked out for each other yet again. Some dropped it on the way as they sped through the track again, but they went back coolly to pick it up. While these little unfortunate mishaps paved way for clear winners to emerge, the ones who were left behind, continued running as fast as they were instructed to do and finished their race in the shadows. The world looked past them and cheered on to the winners, who were getting rewarded with medals and wild applause. I looked at the children who were left behind. They had finished the race too. They held a vibrant smile on their faces. Of accomplishment. Of doing everything they were asked to do. Of running alongside their friends. My daughter was among them.
And I cheered wildly for them.
It's remarkable how these kids took the pressure off of winning for me at that very moment. I looked around to see if other parents had witnessed what I had. Some were celebrating their kid's win with triumphant selfies. Some were immersed in some sort of psychobabble to the effect that winning or losing is part of life and it is participation that matters. Some just sat looking at the field, maybe lost in their own childhood or enjoying some quiet reflections of their own.
I, on the other hand, waited with bated breath for my little girl to come to me. I saw her from a distance, looking a little frazzled. I wondered if she had somehow got the sense of losing in the participants resting camp, so early on in her life. She came up to me and said, "I didn't get the medal mommy."
But I looked at her with pride and said the six words that I had read about in an article a long time ago. The six words that every parent should say to their kid after a competition, irrespective of the outcome. The six words that carried more meaning to me than any words of exaggerated motivation or consolation. The six words that made her smile.
All I said to her was, "But I loved watching you run."
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