Father Notes: The Serenity Prayer

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In the age of 12 step programs and reality shows that focus on addiction, most people are familiar with the Serenity Prayer in one form or another.  In the last couple of days, it has popped into my head for an entirely different purpose.  It has popped into my head as a father.

As many of my readers know, my daughter had a stroke when she was born, which caused some mobility/agility issues in her left side.  She toe walks on the left and likes to keep her left hand clenched, which makes fine motor skills like those dealing with buttons difficult for her.  For the most part though, Shea is a happy and well-adjusted little girl who doesn't have to deal with too much push back from her "difference."

That is until recently.

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Over the past couple of weeks, my daughter has been coming home from school saying that she is playing by herself at recess.  The first thoughts that struck Tracy and I was that there must be some drama in between her and the other girls at school, some childhood snafu that would dissipate in a couple of days.  I talked to her about it a little bit more and I realized we were wrong.

Her issues do not arise from some emotional/psychological drama with her fellow classmates, but it originates and grows out of her sometimes limited mobility.  The sun has been out and all recesses have been outside in the playground and field surrounding her school, which is exactly as it should be.  Since the kids have a lot of room to run, all the games they've been playing involve chasing each other down, playing tag, etc.  Shea has been feeling left out of those games, or at least frustrated with them, because she is only able to run fast for short distances.  In her words, "I can only run zoom, zoom for a little while."

Because of her stroke, her body fatigues quickly.  It is not a mental issue, it is not a lack of desire to play with the other children, but it is a lack of physical conditioning and ability that holds her back from these games.  After a couple of minutes, the game of tag or chase moves on without her and she is left standing alone in a field or a playground and, at times, she feels abandoned, alone, like her friends don't want to play with her.

This breaks my heart.

It isn't the physical reality that breaks my heart, the need to focus more on Shea's strength and endurance.  That part is the easy part.  We'll build a plan with her physical therapist and start to work on exercises that will both increase her flexibility in the left leg, but also build strength and endurance so that she can run better, longer, faster.

The part that hurts me is the fact that I can't really do much about the emotional pain she feels.  Yes, I can nurture her and tell her she is fine.  I can support her and tout her other gifts.  I can make time for her and soothe her when she is sad, but I can't really change the reality of the playground.

This is where the Serenity Prayer has been coming to mind.  For those of you who don't know it, it goes like this:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference. (Source)

My daughter's life is going to contain moments like this, moments where things seem unfair and hurtful.  I will do anything in my power, not to defend her from those moments, but to shore her up in ways that she will be able to navigate them.  My job is not to eradicate the situation.  I can't, for another just like it will arise down the road.  I can't eliminate unintentional emotional slights any more than I can prevent her from feeling bad when she encounters them.  In fact, I can't even call this situation an error.  I can't blame the kids for carrying on with their game of tag. I can't blame them for running around in a field full of sunshine.  I can't blame Shea for feeling bad about it.  There's a whole lot of "can't" in this situation.

But I am haunted by the image of a raucous playground full of screaming kids, bolting around as the sun glints from the frame of eyeglasses, their squeals of delight ringing in the air, and, in the foreground, a single figure.  A single figure who looks left and right, finding a gap between herself and the others, and realizing, maybe for the first time, that she is different in a way that makes her feel isolated.  A tiny figure standing in the midst of an early spring heat and wondering why.

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There is little I can do for this, and so I turn to the Serenity Prayer.  I turn to the things I can do, the ways I can make that isolated figure feel powerful and strong, happy and connected.  I can organize play dates and individual time with the boys and girls.  I can begin to work with the therapist to strengthen the organism of the body.  I can organize "You and Me" days where she feels like the center of attention and connected to her father.  I can give myself to my family and be present when we have family time together.  I can allow her to follow her interests and enroll her in sports, dance, horseback riding.  I can do all of these things, but I can't save her from that hurt, and I ache with the futility of that realization.  Instead, I turn to another line of thinking in the hopes that it will shore me up in this situation.

Happy Little Girl!

I think that this too will make her stronger.  That it will make her wiser.  That it will make her want to work harder in physical therapy.  That is will make her be inventive in how to engage her fellow students in ways that seem fun and exciting.  That she will grow up as an adult who knows both joy and sorrow, the yin and yang of life, and she'll have all the skills she needs in order to navigate what every adult knows is coming, the bittersweet complexity of adulthood.