A blurb about courage — written for me and anyone who ever felt afraid to try.
My six year old woke at the crack of dawn to get dressed for school. Put on his nicest kaki pants and polo then slapped on some suspenders and a bowtie. We slicked his hair into an obnoxious comb-over. All that was left was to put on his mustache, a fuzzy old thing we dug up from the costume bin.
It was Dress Like a Teacher Day at the elementary school and my kindergartner had planned a week in advance what he would wear. Now that the day had finally arrived he ran to the mirror to look himself over — and his little face fell. “What if people laugh at me?” he asked with a pout. “What if they think I’m just wearing church clothes?” And worst of all,” What if my mustache falls off?”
My six year old woke at the crack of dawn to get dressed for school. Put on his nicest kaki pants and polo then slapped on some suspenders and a bowtie. We slicked his hair into an obnoxious comb-over. All that was left was to put on his mustache, a fuzzy old thing we dug up from the costume bin.
It was Dress Like a Teacher Day at the elementary school and my kindergartner had planned a week in advance what he would wear. Now that the day had finally arrived he ran to the mirror to look himself over — and his little face fell. “What if people laugh at me?” he asked with a pout. “What if they think I’m just wearing church clothes?” And worst of all,” What if my mustache falls off?”
We talked through all these issues and I reinforced his mustache with extra sticky tape. Then I took a picture of the handsome little professor, but he was not having it. The fears had entered his mind, and now fear was all he could think of. The whole drive to school he moaned about how people would laugh at him, and I lectured about how great he looked, but he didn’t hear a word of my praise. By the time we pulled up the school curb, all he had left of his teacher getup was a pair of kakis and a stained undershirt that barely reached his belly button.
I was pretty upset as I watched him enter the building, leaving his teacher outfit and mustache crumpled on the van floor. I shook my head, thinking how ridiculous it was for him to be so afraid of failure that he wouldn’t even try for success. I saw the other kids enter the building in their costumes and I ached, knowing how much my son would miss out on by succumbing to his insecurity.
But as I drove toward home, memories from my own childhood popped into my mind and I winced as I remembered things I too had missed out on because I was too afraid to try. Suddenly I realized how disappointing I must be to my heavenly parents when I let fear get the better of me. How ungrateful I must seem when I abandon my talents in a crumpled heap.
There were so many sports I didn’t try out for, dance moves I was too embarrassed to reveal, and as I pulled into the driveway a single most blistering memory of loss popped into my mind. It was memory of Ryan Suede.
Ryan Suede was the most popular boy in the sixth grade. He had wavy hair and basketball shoes that inflated with a pump on the tongue. He could wear a Mossimo t-shirt tucked into pleated jeans like nobody’s business! At the first middle school dance of the year, Ryan asked me to dance. He had just pulled himself off the floor where he had cater-pillared his way into the hearts of the entire school. And then a Boys To Men song had started playing, and Ryan stood there waiting for me to answer. But all I could do was look at my feet and say…no.
I was so caught up in thinking of the ways my “mustache” might fall off — that I didn’t even try to wear it. I might say something dumb and make a fool of myself, I had thought. And I might dance off rhythm. Or even worse, maybe someone just put him up to this and everyone will be staring at us, knowing it was just a joke. I stood alone, all caught up in my fears, as I watched Ryan choose a different dance partner. I left the dance before it was even half way over. Oh the tears that wet my pillow that night!
I snapped out of my middle school reverie as I pulled into the driveway and unbuckled the baby from his carseat. Amazing how much a memory could hurt all these years later, I thought as the baby cradled himself in my arms. And I couldn’t help by wonder, have I learned my lesson? Am I really any different now than that eleven-year-old girl who left the dance early?
Oh how I wish I could convince my son to be brave, how I wish I could go back and convince a younger me to say yes to Ryan Suede. But I can’t hand confidence to my son any more than I can go back to being eleven. In recent years I’ve battled with fear more fiercely than ever as I’ve tackled the crazy pursuit of writing. Who am I to claim the title of author, I’ve wondered. I can’t write like Steinbeck so why even try? I don’t even have an agent so why would anyone care about what I have to say? And for heavens sake, what if my “mustache” falls off and everyone finds out I’m a fake who didn’t even major in English!
But while I’ve come to accept that my writing probably won’t change the world, it sure has changed me. Writing has taught me to face my fears and it’s taught me to celebrate the small things. Writing has taught me how much validation we all need as human beings, and it has helped me look for chances to cheer on those around me.
Sure my “mustache” has fallen off a few times, and I’ve been plenty embarrassed, even felt tempted to abandon it at times. Other times my mustache has gone completely unnoticed, which feels almost as bad. But you know what? When a mustache falls off all it takes is a little brushing off, a little more tape, and enough courage . . . (apply fuzzy mustache now) to put it back on.
I was pretty upset as I watched him enter the building, leaving his teacher outfit and mustache crumpled on the van floor. I shook my head, thinking how ridiculous it was for him to be so afraid of failure that he wouldn’t even try for success. I saw the other kids enter the building in their costumes and I ached, knowing how much my son would miss out on by succumbing to his insecurity.
But as I drove toward home, memories from my own childhood popped into my mind and I winced as I remembered things I too had missed out on because I was too afraid to try. Suddenly I realized how disappointing I must be to my heavenly parents when I let fear get the better of me. How ungrateful I must seem when I abandon my talents in a crumpled heap.
There were so many sports I didn’t try out for, dance moves I was too embarrassed to reveal, and as I pulled into the driveway a single most blistering memory of loss popped into my mind. It was memory of Ryan Suede.
Ryan Suede was the most popular boy in the sixth grade. He had wavy hair and basketball shoes that inflated with a pump on the tongue. He could wear a Mossimo t-shirt tucked into pleated jeans like nobody’s business! At the first middle school dance of the year, Ryan asked me to dance. He had just pulled himself off the floor where he had cater-pillared his way into the hearts of the entire school. And then a Boys To Men song had started playing, and Ryan stood there waiting for me to answer. But all I could do was look at my feet and say…no.
I was so caught up in thinking of the ways my “mustache” might fall off — that I didn’t even try to wear it. I might say something dumb and make a fool of myself, I had thought. And I might dance off rhythm. Or even worse, maybe someone just put him up to this and everyone will be staring at us, knowing it was just a joke. I stood alone, all caught up in my fears, as I watched Ryan choose a different dance partner. I left the dance before it was even half way over. Oh the tears that wet my pillow that night!
I snapped out of my middle school reverie as I pulled into the driveway and unbuckled the baby from his carseat. Amazing how much a memory could hurt all these years later, I thought as the baby cradled himself in my arms. And I couldn’t help by wonder, have I learned my lesson? Am I really any different now than that eleven-year-old girl who left the dance early?
Oh how I wish I could convince my son to be brave, how I wish I could go back and convince a younger me to say yes to Ryan Suede. But I can’t hand confidence to my son any more than I can go back to being eleven. In recent years I’ve battled with fear more fiercely than ever as I’ve tackled the crazy pursuit of writing. Who am I to claim the title of author, I’ve wondered. I can’t write like Steinbeck so why even try? I don’t even have an agent so why would anyone care about what I have to say? And for heavens sake, what if my “mustache” falls off and everyone finds out I’m a fake who didn’t even major in English!
But while I’ve come to accept that my writing probably won’t change the world, it sure has changed me. Writing has taught me to face my fears and it’s taught me to celebrate the small things. Writing has taught me how much validation we all need as human beings, and it has helped me look for chances to cheer on those around me.
Sure my “mustache” has fallen off a few times, and I’ve been plenty embarrassed, even felt tempted to abandon it at times. Other times my mustache has gone completely unnoticed, which feels almost as bad. But you know what? When a mustache falls off all it takes is a little brushing off, a little more tape, and enough courage . . . (apply fuzzy mustache now) to put it back on.