Sliding through parental lessons

It stood there glaring at me. Representing all my deepest fears.

It was the red twisty slide at 38th Street Park in Newport Beach,

and my 3-year-old son and the two friends he had made in the last

five minutes were finding the most inventive ways to hurl themselves

down it.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those clingy moms who

holds my kid’s hand as he walks across the jungle gym, and I don’t

make him wear a helmet on the swings or anything. I watch him tumble

and split his lip and scrape his knee all the time without so much as

flinching.

The physical dangers of the slide didn’t scare me; it was the

rebellion it symbolized that did. I’ll explain.

Ever since my son, Donovan, started playing on slides, his father

and I, as well as preschool teachers and grandparents, have taught

him to slide on his “bootie,” feet first. When he was younger, he did

this easily and never doubted it was the safest way.

Now he is older and more sure on his feet. He sees what the bigger

kids do and he wants to test himself. Now he runs down the slide,

jumps off the side of it, goes down head first, or feet first but on

his belly. He runs up the piece of recreational equipment, truly

rebelling against the nature of the slide. All my warnings about

possibly hurting himself have been ignored, as he must now experiment

for himself.

As I sat on the edge of the park Sunday and watched Donovan and

his fellow daredevil playmates, I began to think of how many more

“slides” life would offer him. How many other times he will ignore my

warnings and test the boundaries of conventional wisdom. I watched

first hand how much influence his peers had on him at this young age

and thought how that pressure will only multiply during the teen

years.

And then I started to think about heredity and I really got myself

nervous. If he is anything like me, he will be hardheaded and insist

he learn his lessons the hard way. (Oh mom, I am so sorry for what I

must have put you through.) Karma is going to get me, I thought to

myself, and my pulse quickened.

The wheels in my mind started to spin out of control, and I had my

first parental “freak out session.”

I thought I had experienced one when he was 3 days old and I

didn’t think he was getting enough fluids. I rushed him to the

emergency room in a panic. He was fine, the doctor said, and my

nerves were calmed.

And the time he yanked his pinkie finger out of the socket, I

flipped out and didn’t know what to do. Donovan’s father, who played

football and has had many a dislocated finger, unworriedly popped it

back into place, and I relaxed.

But this parenting dilemma had no easy answer. There was no

prescription to be written, no steps to take to ensure everything

would come out right. There was just me and Donovan and the stark

reality that everything I do and say to him is building the

foundation for how he will approach future challenges.

The weight of being a parent hit me dead in the face as I stared

at that twisty red slide.

And then something wonderful happened. One of his little playmates

slammed into another kid who was still lingering at the bottom of the

slide. Both broke out in tears and ran to their respective parents.

OK, that the kids were slightly injured -- no real harm done --

was not wonderful, but it was what Donovan said to me that helped

snap me out of my previous panic attack.

“Mommy, did you see that?” he said while running over to me. “That

was bad. That’s what happens when you don’t wait until people get out

of the way.”

He remembered. There was one piece of advise about the slide he

had actually taken to heart. I could have hugged and kissed him for

hours, but he was already off on the “rope-climby thing,” further

testing his skills.

I realized that, by allowing him to test himself and trusting in

my own parenting skills, I could stand back and let him figure things

out on his own, while still knowing my influence was with him. Of

course, if I saw something dangerous, I would step in, but I felt

good knowing my advice had stayed with him.

I glared back at the slide and realized it wasn’t that bad after

all. Sure, it represented inherent rebellion, but it also showed me

my son understood the line between trying new things and being

reckless.

I conquered a playground apparatus this weekend. Can’t wait until

high school.

* LOLITA HARPER covers Costa Mesa. She may be reached at (949)

574-4275 or by e-mail at lolita.harper@latimes.com.