How His Brave Got Big

I'm learning more and more that what we say to ourselves is powerful enough to influence the way we perform. My living, breathing example is my six-year-old boy.

Teague has always been kind of a marvel in the way he's taken his lumps as he's beaten his cancer. He learned quickly to just roll with all the poking and prodding that came with treatment. By the time he was being radiated every day at age two, he loved his hospital visits. Or seemed to, anyway. He was a smiley little gift to everyone he saw, giving hugs and pats, holding his little arm out for the blood pressure cuff, and hopping up onto the scale. And since that time, I have never seen him so much as flinch at an IV placement.

But as Teague has grown, he has gotten to where he expresses dread at the MRIs that happen every six months. Turns out he's not some anomaly. He really doesn't like to be jabbed with a needle.

So now there's a little more discussion when it's doctor time. He says he doesn't want to go, then he'll ask a few questions about the IV, and he'll say he doesn't want it to hurt. Then all of a sudden, he'll be OK with it.

That pattern unfolded in the car on the way to the hospital this morning (today's visit marks four-and-a-half years cancer free). I asked him how he does it. He said, "I just tell myself it's fun... but it still hurts."

Wow. A six-year-old who can self-talk better than I can. That's all he does to put on his brave face. And it explains why he says he likes it and that it's fun and why he won't sit on my lap or let me pat him while they're placing the line. He can't have me mothering him out of his brave zone.

I saw him get into that brave zone once last summer when I made him miss karate for deliberately peeing on the carpet. But it wasn't a simple skipped class. His task was to go to class and tell his instructor why he had to sit out. For two days he fretted. "Is it karate day?" I would tell him when it was. He would say he didn't want to go. But ultimately when the day came and we got into the van and headed to class, I heard him state resolutely, "OK. I can do this." His gaze was straight ahead; he was not saying it to me.

Has my son been doing this since he was two? Has he been telling himself, without anyone even suggesting it, that he can do this? How I would love to see a transcript of what went through his mind as a toddler as he developed this thing he just switches on when he needs it. I am absolutely fascinated that a little boy could and did teach himself a skill that adults go to seminars, buy books, and consult therapists to acquire.

And a little child shall lead them.