When my eldest son Mike started middle school, the entire sixth grade went on a field trip to a nearby state park, to a tree climbing obstacle rope course.
Matched in pairs, the idea was that kids would help each other go through a number of challenging obstacles by climbing high trees, walking on suspended wires, zipping down fast lines, etc. The school hoped this activity would be fun for the kids as well as give the new group a sense of unity and help students develop team-building skills.
I was one of the parent-chaperons.
I was anxious on Mike’s account. I well knew about his fear of heights – he had inherited it from me. So, I came along to show support and to cheer him on.
Riding on the school bus to the state park, I sat next to Brandon’s dad – a friendly, nonathletic, overweight music professor. After talking to me for a long time about Italian operas, I confided in him that I was worried about Mike’s upcoming climbing adventure.
He asked me if I was climbing. The idea had never entered my mind and seemed so shocking and outlandish that I laughed out loud.
“So, you expect your son to do what he is most afraid of, but you won’t do it yourself?” the little musician asked.
“Are you climbing?” I asked.
“Oh, I have been looking forward do it all week. I love to climb.”
I felt humbled and shamed. There are few challenges that provoke my pride more than the implication that I am letting my children down. Or that I am a coward.
When we reached our destination, I looked up into the never ending canopy and the trees seemed as high as the Empire State Building.
Students started climbing, one partner high up on the obstacle course attached to safety ropes, the other on the ground giving directions. Kids were laughing and having fun, but Mike was uncharacteristically quiet.
My hands were sweating when his turn came. I could tell by the way his voice shook when he talked to his partner, by the way he held on to the tree trunks, that he was very frightened. But he did it. He completed the entire obstacle course and zipped down the line in triumph.
Brandon’s dad went climbing soon after. The man was as graceful, as light and elegant as a ballerina up there high in the branches. At one point, instead of walking forward, he pranced backward, on a high wire.
Almost everyone who wanted to climb had climbed, I was the only parent who hadn’t. Mike’s English teacher, Mrs. Murphy, came to me and asked if I wanted to go up. She needed a partner.
I saw both Mike and Brandon’s dad looking my way.
I slowly climbed the ladder and there I was, high above the rest of the world, my heart pulsating like a frightened squirrel.
I pressed my cheek against the rough, thick trunk and held on for dear life, unable to imagine ever moving again, much less taking the leap across the high wire. I, so restless and nimble on the ground, was an elephant in the high branches of the trees.
If someone offered to buy my children at that moment, and everyone I hold dear in return for placing me safely on hard, stable ground, I would have gladly done it. But no one offered.
So, I let go of the trunk and took a clumsy leap. I landed on a delicate wire, didn’t fall into the void. I held on. The kids cheered.
And so I went from one obstacle to the next, terrified, hardly able to speak, anxiously listening to directions from Mrs. Murphy, while the kids, united in a fascinated curiosity, followed my every move.
When I zipped down the final line at what seemed like hundred miles per hour, the sixth grade class greeted me like a hero, my son among them.
I sat far away from Brandon’s dad on the bus-ride home. I didn’t want anything to hinder my sense of triumph.
Bouncing with his friends on the bus seats, talking and laughing, Mike looked happy and relieved. I knew how he felt.
I felt like I had just slain a dragon.
Mike and his mother - 6th grade
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