Sports Day 1.0

Avaan, my 3-year-old, was wailing inconsolably.

We were at his very first school “Sports Day.”

I was holding him close, murmuring soothingly in his ear. Telling him that he didn't have to do the rehearsed drill or race they had practiced for the event. He could stand still, sit, or squat on the field as long as he was having fun. I mean he was 3!

Having fun should be a primary life goal for everyone. And when you’re all of 3, having fun definitely weighs far heavier on the scale than being synchronized at a sports drill.

I prayed that my calm demeanour didn't belie my true feelings. The feelings of frustration, hopelessness, and inadequacy that had engulfed me. I was frustrated at how different this milestone was going from how I had imagined it in my head. Before he could even walk.

Hopeless because nothing would stop his tears despite my constant reassurance that he was being terrific just by showing up (like he had a choice) and getting to the stadium.

Inadequate, because no other child was holding on to their parent for dear life and crying, begging to return home.?

Had I screwed up in some way? At what point, though? While far from perfect, ?I consider myself to be reasonably good at motherhood. And I do grow into the role a little more every day.

?However, growing up, I had been terrible at emotional regulation myself. Even a tiny problem would escalate into an SOS emergency for me. The sky was always falling, and I predicted doom everywhere. From adolescence through young adulthood, my anxiety had never stopped haunting me.

?My coping mechanism (or lack thereof) during such events was to amplify my anxiety through overthinking, imagining the worst possible outcomes, and not being able to sleep.

Then there was the other issue of being unable to cry. Crying can be such an incredible emotional release! But 90s parenting had conditioned me to think that crying was "weak" or "bad". So, even to this present day, when I feel the urge to have a good cry, I can't.

?Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop feeling lousy.

That's what anxiety did to me for what should have been some of my best years. I vowed that I wouldn't let Avaan be robbed of his best years.

Even if he did have a genetic predisposition to anxiety, a gift from mommy- this family heirloom would perish with me. So, I always encourage Avaan to cry whenever he feels upset. I’ve also instilled strong sleep hygiene in him. Bedtime at 9pm, come what may.

?I've forbidden his grandparents or any close relatives to say things like "Brave boys don't cry". When he cries, I don't ask him to stop, but hold him close and try to get to the root cause of whatever upset him.

However even today, as a self-assured, middle-aged, fairly wise mom and business owner, my anxiety still lurks around although it has stopped the full-blown haunt. Flaring up at 3pm around an urgent work call or at 3am when I wake up to answer nature's call.

But like I said, I had promised myself that even if I did pass my "anxiety gene" to my son, I would help him be much better at emotional regulation than I ever could be. After all, nurture>>>> nature, right??

However, what worried me that day wasn't that almost every parent was staring at his tear-streamed face, judging. I couldn't care less about what people thought when my son was in such mental anguish.

What worried me was that it took him so little to be emotionally distraught. "Just like you," said an uneasy voice inside myself. His classmates looked excited, happy, or simply bored. But nobody was petrified except him.

"I want to go home." He wailed incessantly. I held him in my arms, hugged him, and told him it would be ok. That he would do great. He could just think of his favourite songs during the drill while dancing, laughing, or waving.

That mumma would be proud of him for doing something he'd rather not because it would serve him in the long run. Like exercising or making healthier food choices.

?“I could also go to a birthday party instead or to the park.” He offered helpfully, still tearful.

We got to the drop-off area, where I was supposed to hand him over to his class teacher. A wonderfully maternal, nurturing woman. The kind of teacher I wish I'd had growing up.

?"He'll be ok, right?" I asked nervously.

"Of course, he will. Just give him some time to acclimatize." She chirped brightly and gently led him towards the pavilion.

?Soon, it was showtime.

The nursery line-up was announced. Predictably, the PE teacher had placed him right at the back so he was least visible from the audience seating. His section had the cutest dance drill I'd ever seen with hula-hoops.

He was sobbing for the better part of the drill. Occasionally, he would remember what he was supposed to be doing and attempt a feeble hop with the rest of his class, still sobbing. It would've been quite comical if it weren't so tragic.

?Then came the race, where they had to skip over minor hurdles and crawl out of a toy tunnel. Avaan didn't run. His anxiety had put him in "freeze" mode. Like a deer caught in headlights. So, an assistant teacher coaxed him to run with her. He was the only child who wasn't running independently. That stung a little, I won’t lie.

Eventually, he climbed out of the tunnel, still visibly distraught, the last one out. I clapped enthusiastically, cheering the whole section on. Inside, my heart was breaking just a little bit.

Soon, it was all over. All the sections in the primary school had played their part with quite the aplomb.

I went over to collect him. He was already looking more cheerful now that the dreaded event was over. I kneeled down to his height and clasped him by his shoulders and beamed. "Hey, you, you did great! I'm so proud of you!"

"He really did, didn't he? The way he climbed out of the tunnel. And he’s one of the youngest kids in his class." His class teacher chimed in enthusiastically.

?Her kind face lit up into a genuine smile. We smiled at each other, with a sense of kinship. And what I felt in that instant was gratitude. I was grateful that he didn't attend the kind of school I did, which would've shamed him for not keeping up.

?Nor received the kind of traditional parenting where he would've been admonished for not doing as well as his peers. I felt a rush of affection for his teacher who knew precisely the right thing to say. I also felt proud of myself for being the kind of mom I'd respect.

?Later that afternoon, I reflected on my own fitness journey. The only sport that my school had offered was basketball. And I was pretty rubbish at it.

Being a skinny girl meant that for most of my youth and to be honest, even till date, I could eat whatever I wanted and sit around all day without gaining too much weight. Of course, back then; I didn't know the havoc this lifestyle of sloth and glut was wreaking on my mental and physical health.

?But hey, this grown-ass woman now trains at least 4x weekly for an hour. She does a mixture of cardio, resistance, strength training, and yoga. She can effortlessly get into and hold a headstand for over a minute.

?Her 35th birthday goal is to master skiing, because she's learned to love her body's fluid movements and wants to discover the myriad other ways she can enjoy her agility. While she won't say no to a decadent gourmet dessert (she will politely decline stale, store-bought cookies most days), she knows nothing tastes as good as healthy feels.

?Her fitness trajectory has not been in a silo. It has been on an upward trend with her cognitive and mental health. This ain't a plain correlation; there's definitely causation here.

?In the evening, I was chortling while narrating to my husband (who couldn’t make it to the event because of work travel) an incident that had occurred on our way home from the stadium with Avaan.

All the kids had received a beautifully wrapped, sizeable gift for their participation. Avaan held onto his tightly even though it was weighing his little frame down.

?"This is something unhealthy, so I won't give it to you. You won't let me eat it." He declared with a tone of finality so characteristic of an independent–minded 3 year old.

After all, he knows that the "treats", a.k .a. ultra-processed foods, he receives from well-meaning relatives and friends, have a way of vanishing when I'm responsible for their safeguarding. Hehe, mea culpa.

?He unwrapped the gift with delighted anticipation.

His face fell when he saw it was a shiny mug instead of the sweet treat he had expected. He dug his tiny fingers deeper into the box; incredulous that this was all he had received in return for the “torture” he had endured at the stadium.

"Oh, well, I can make your coffee in it." He said in a bored, indifferent voice.

?Naman, my husband, chuckled when he heard this story. "I bet if they had a cookie trail, Avaan would've outrun the whole school at sports day, given just how much you deprive him of junk food."

That night, I went for a solitary walk on our terrace. My fitness journey and the accompanying personal growth seemed awe-inspiring to me as I looked back.

?At 34, I have more muscle mass, energy, a toner body, better self-esteem, higher cognition, and more passion for health and fitness than my fumbling, under confident 24 or 14-year-old self ever did.

?"If I can come so far on my own without any parent or teacher to proactively mentor me, just imagine the places Avaan can travel!” I marveled. Especially with healthy encouragement from his almost perfect teachers at school and from his parents, both of whom are major fitness enthusiasts." I happily thought to myself.

?And then, suddenly, I was overcome with a flood of emotions.

Anger at losing what could have been my best years.

Regret at not being able to reach my true potential sooner because of my debilitating anxiety.

Pride at how far I had come despite the crippling, constant disquiet in my head through a holistic mix of good nutrition, exercise, therapy, meditation, and the support of a loving, long-suffering (hehe), and wise-beyond-his years husband.

Relief that Avaan hopefully wouldn't have to bear this unpleasantly, long-winded trail to confidence, fitness, and better emotional regulation because I could teach him so much from my experiences. Oh, and let’s not forget the nurturing from his fantastic class teachers.

?And then, I finally broke down and cried. I felt freer and lighter than I had in a long time. “The kids are alright.” I proclaimed, thinking of both Avaan and my inner child.

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