Serenity and Sonic the Hedgehog

Having a child is like having your heart walk outside of your body and doing everything within heaven and earth to protect and ensure your heart is safe and happy. It’s day 2 of kindergarten. We arrive at the bus stop a solid 30 minutes early and set up a beach chair to sit and wait when I realize I forgot my coffee cup. I have been up since way before dawn. I NEED my coffee. I leave our beach chair to mark our spot and cajole Rowan to walk the block back to our house with me.  Rowan, however, he defiantly insists that he wants to wait by the stop sign on the corner at the end of our street. 

I exasperatedly tell him no, explaining that it's not that I don't trust him, it's that I don't trust other people not to hurt him. Even if he patiently waits on the grass, out of the street, my mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenario of a drunk driver swerving off the street and hitting my helpless child. Given that it's nearly impossible to reason with a five-year-old dead set on asserting his independence, I pick him up with one arm, while guiding our dog Tillie back to the house with the other. 

We reach the front door, and I put Rowan down so I can unlock it. Once Rowan's Sonic the Hedgehog shoes hit the pavement, he bolts down the driveway as fast as Sonic himself.  It only takes me 30 seconds to locate my coffee cup among the chaotic clutter of our den, but time grinds to a halt, making those 30 seconds seem like 30 years. Coffee cup in hand, I sprint down the driveway expecting to have to run to the end of the street to catch him. Yet, as I reach the end of the driveway, I catch a glimpse of his blue Sonic hoodie in the periphery of my eye. As he promised, he is patiently waiting in the grass, off the street, unharmed from my imaginary worst-case scenario. 

As we walk hand-in-hand to the bus stop for the second time this morning, Rowan expresses his fear that someone will take our beach chair that we left behind. I reassure him that even if that happens, we will kindly ask the person to move. We reach the bus stop, and Rowan's fear turns out to be true—there is a little girl sitting in our chair. I calmly walk up to the girl, explain that she is sitting in our chair, and kindly ask if we can sit down. The girl promptly responds, "Yes, of course, no problem." I express my sincere thanks, sit down, and pull Rowan into my lap.

As we're settling in, calming ourselves before the bus arrives, I look more intently at the girl. She emanates a quiet, confident and welcoming beauty. I ask her what grade she is in, and she shares she just started the 6th grade and expresses her love for her former elementary school that Rowan now attends. Naturally, I next ask for her to share her name. "Serenity,” she responds. Her bus pulls up and waves bye to me and Rowan.

A minute later, Rowan's bus pulls up and I watch him ascend the steps wearing his grown-up sized Spider-Man backpack, too big against his little body. I watch him claim his seat and place his hand against the window, reaching for me. I mouth "I love you" and blow kisses as his bus drives away. 

I begin the short walk home by myself and as Rowan's bus vanishes into the horizon, time grinds to a halt once again.  I am transported back to my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, clutching lukewarm coffee in a Styrofoam cup, reciting the Serenity prayer with strangers. In that moment, the prospect of giving up the crutch that I had come to rely upon to numb my pain seemed unbearable. 

Even though I'm nearly three years alcohol free, I realize that my sobriety journey is never ending. I am presently amid detoxing from the most powerful drug of all: control. My encounter with the human "Serenity" this morning reminds me that this is just the beginning of my journey of letting go. It starts with his first ride on the school bus. Then comes middle school. Before I know it, I'm driving him and his girlfriend to his "real" first date at the movie theater. Suddenly he's graduating high school and off to college. Before I can even blink, he's a married grown man with a family of his own. 

Yet, by giving up the crutch that numbed my pain, I've come to see pain as a teacher, not something to be feared. Through sobriety, I've learned so much about myself and my relationship with others. I can truly say that I love myself, and that is not something I could say three years ago. Grounded in self-love, I know that the best way for me to protect my son is to teach him to bestow kindness to himself and be forgiving with himself. By doing this, I hope that he will establish an unshakeable sense of self-worth that will enable him to cope with and persevere through any trials he endures in his lifetime while maintaining his wholeness. 

This morning, and every day forward, I pray:

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference."