I was talking to a neighbor parent yesterday, and I shared a daily thought of mine: “there’s nothing more comical about my pre-kids assumptions about parenting than my belief that a parent’s biggest job is to teach their children.” In actuality, I’ve learned far more about myself and the world from my children than I’ve taught them. A parent’s biggest job is to learn from their children. It’s really the only thing about parenting I’m absolutely sure of.

Both of our children have recently gotten interested in team sports, and the nicest possible way I can explain our current team assignments is that they are winding down extreme character-building seasons. Yesterday, our eldest lost his final game of the season, which was their seventh loss in a row. There were only 8 games, so ouch. When he came to me at the end of the game, I said “sorry, buddy.” He looked me straight in the face and said “about what?” I tried to play it off, distract him, and not answer, but he asked again “about what?!”

I quickly realized my error — that the weight I was placing on winning was not in line with his measurement system for success. In his mind, he had gotten to pitch an inning, had had done his best at bat, and his efforts in the field met his expectations. He left it all on the field. (He had the dirty jersey to prove it.) So did his teammates. They were satisfied. They played hard, and that was enough.

And there I was, putting my garbage assumptions on a bunch of 9- and 10-year-olds playing in their first kid-pitch season. I did own my error. I reframed to say “I meant I was sorry you lost. But I should have asked how you felt about the game.”

His answer was “I got to pitch, so it was good!” It wasn’t even about how he pitched. It was all about having been given the opportunity to try. The few innings he pitched throughout the season, I was so nervous for him. Meanwhile, he was out there throwing his best and his hardest. (Often the pitches bounced short of the plate or sent the catcher scrambling. Every once in awhile, the batter swung. Once in a blue moon, he struck someone out.) And every single pitch, he stood on the mound, focused and composed and willing to try again. I sat hunched in my chair, holding my breath, and praying we’d get out of the inning. And all the while, he was just so damn happy to be trying. Confident. Vulnerable. Both at once, which is just such an amazing practice to witness.

I’m so grateful he’s teaching me and it’s not the other way around. I’m so relieved I didn’t pass on my programming — don’t put yourself out there if you might fail; don’t embarrass yourself; don’t ask for anything you’re not absolutely sure you deserve. I’m learning from the best that it’s not too late run an update on that programming — why not try?; there are wins in every loss; baseball is fun; playing the game is always better than watching; and pitching poorly is infinitely more fun than playing outfield well.

It reminds me of one of my favorite quotes:

“If you are not in the arena getting your ass kicked on occasion, I am not interested in or open to your feedback. There are a million cheap seats in the world today filled with people who will never be brave with their own lives, but will spend every ounce of energy they have hurling advice and judgement at those of us trying to dare greatly. Their only contributions are criticism, cynicism, and fear-mongering. If you’re criticizing from a place where you’re not also putting yourself on the line, I’m not interested in your feedback.”

– Brene Brown

So yes, it’s time for mama to get brave like my kids. I’m not about to plop this booty in the cheap seats of my children’s lives. It’s time to take their lead, jump back into the arena and feel the buzz of trying, of playing my heart out and knowing that is absolutely enough.

Man, I love these kids. They are always the very best part of me. (They are also always unearthing the worst parts of me, and as painful as it is to look those in the mirror, I’m grateful they’re giving them a chance to heal.) So I guess in that sense, my teachers are succeeding. Because if we’re talking about being their mom, I’m always willing to try again and damn happy to be given another chance to do better. Because they deserve that. And so do I.