Scaredy-cat

Or: when pep talks for my kids turn into pep talks for myself

“I’m not doing the talent show,” my eight-year-old mumbled the second I nudged him awake. 

“You’ve been practicing so hard, buddy,” I told him as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “And you aren’t doing it by yourself—you have a friend counting on you.”

“I’m NOT doing it,” he repeated. 

He remained firm in his conviction through breakfast and getting ready for school, while I brainstormed what might possibly change his mind. Just the night before, he’d enthusiastically played the cello alongside his friend on the violin, running through the notes of “Humpty Dumpty” until they were ready.

I’d been a little surprised when he told me he wanted to sign up for the talent show. The year before, he’d practiced and practiced a set of jokes at home, excited about his act until the moment it was time to audition. When the teacher called his name, he stayed in his seat, frozen by the fear of having to get up in front of everyone (a fear I can very much relate to).  

So this year, when the sign-ups came out, I thought a video talent might be the way to go—less chance of stage fright derailing his plans. His brothers decided to do one together (a baking show), and I tried to convince him that joining in with them, or making his own video, might be a good option. But he’d been insistent that he wanted to audition to play his instrument with his friend.

The audition went smoothly, but now the big day was here—along with the butterflies. 

“I’m not doing it,” he told me again a couple of minutes before we had to leave for school. All the reasons he needed to do it ran through my head: he’d committed, he had a friend counting on him, he wanted to do it until the fear of having to get on stage drowned out his excitement.

A few paragraphs from Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert—a book I’d read years before—popped into my head. She writes that fear can have a seat in the car, but it’s not allowed to drive, which seemed like an appropriate message for this particular morning.

I reached back through my past selves to find my best silly, energetic, slightly over-the-top camp counselor voice. 

“Alright, bud. I need you to pretend like you are driving a car. Where’s your steering wheel?” I asked, exaggerating a turn with an imaginary steering wheel of my own. 

“Are you with me? We’re driving, we’re driving, and now… oh my goodness, would you look at that. Scaredy-cat just jumped in the front seat next to you!” Giggles erupted as I poked at an imaginary cat.

“Here’s what we’re going to tell Scaredy-cat. Are you ready?”

I took a deep breath and upped my volume. “SCAREDY-CAT! YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DRIVE THIS CAR! GET IN THE BACKSEAT! YOU ARE NOT IN CHARGE!”

My son was laughing wildly at my antics, but I couldn’t tell whether I was making any progress in changing his mind.

On the drive to school, he maintained his position that he would not be doing the talent show, and I kept reminding him that it was okay to be scared, but that Scaredy-cat didn’t get to drive the car. 

All day, I wondered what would happen when it was time for the talent show. There were two performances—one during the school day, and one for families to attend in the evening. I wouldn’t know whether or not he got up on stage for the in-school performance until school was over, and I felt almost as nervous waiting to find out as I would have if I were the one getting up on stage.

I don’t know if my Scaredy-cat pep talk made a difference or not, but when I rolled through the carpool line that afternoon, I got the report: he’d done it!

That evening during the family show, I watched act after act of impressive elementary schoolers get up on stage and boldly share their talents. In between acts, I thought about my own brushes with Scaredy-cat.

The partially finished projects I can’t seem to find the time for, the posts I put off writing because procrastinating feels easier than wondering if anyone cares about what I share, the opportunities I’ve self-sabotaged out of fear, the ideas I don’t give oxygen to, the frequent times I’ve chosen not to speak up or share because I worry that I’ll say something dumb or I don’t want to draw attention to myself because I’m feeling self-conscious about my eye. The list goes on and on.

If I’m honest, I let Scaredy-cat give me directions (and sometimes even grab the steering wheel) a lot more often than I’d like to admit. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s going anywhere. But—just like I told my eight-year-old to do—I’m going to practice telling him to get in the backseat.

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