Which wouldn’t have been too big a deal had we not wanted to tow our 15,000lb 5th wheel and motorcycle trailer up a hilly country road lacking adequate gravel.

Try looking in your rearview mirror and seeing all that weight slowing skidding toward the ditch on the side of the road.

Note: You should not be driving straight
and see your rig off in another lane.

Terr. If. Fying.

Even more terrifying? Seeing the same look of Holy-shit-it-should-not-be-doing-that in your always confident husband’s eyes.

We slid, we skidded, we pelted giant clumps of mud all over ourselves in an effort to find traction.

My heart was racing, my stomach was clenched, and my voice was clear as I prayerfully reaffirmed – very loudly for all of the heavens to hear – that we are totally safe. Safe, I say, dammit!

By the time we made it into the campgrounds and my heart stopped racing, I was pissed.

“That’s not effing cool.”

“Someone should’ve warned us about that road.”

“They’re gonna hear it from me at the office.”

I wasn’t exactly freaking out (on the outside) but you could say I was ready to make a statement.

As we walked up to the office – me mentally practicing what I intended to let them know – a man got out of his car and walked up with us. He had driven behind us up that muddy hill and had watched us work to keep control of our rig.

Chuckling, he said, “You guys looked like you were making a Ford commercial! Built Ford Tough!”

And that’s all it took.

One moment of laughter to break through my tension. One reminder of just how thankful I am that our truck could make it up that slippery road.

I laughed. I breathed. I remembered.

I was taken out of my anger and my self-inflicted suffering to remember the bigger picture: That small moments only have the power I give them. That living in the past, in What Could’ve Happened, does nothing for The Now, what IS happening.

Thank goodness for the reminders of muddy roads.

When we first started discussing the decision to travel full-time and eventually settle outside of Vegas, we included Zeb. How could we not? He’s one-third of our family and his experience will be as life-changing as ours.

So, we sat down. We talked over our situation and our choices as best we could without overwhelming him or stressing out an easily-stressed soul. We told him every pro and con of full-time RVing we could think of, we gave him a timeline for being on the road but were honest that it could change, we discussed the potential challenges. And we asked what he thought.

He was hesitant, for sure. Thoughtful and questioning. But after some time, and a promise we’d make room for his Legos, he told us it would work for him.

And then he was excited…for about a week. That’s when his real transitioning began.

Zeb is an emotional, highly-sensitive child. He creates strong attachments to animals, friends and family, as well as things that hold special significance. For years he kept his school reports and certificates on his walls because it reminded him of *something* good from those difficult years. So it’s really no wonder that this transition – away from loved ones, best friends, his hometown, all that he knows, even his pets – would hit him hard.

All at once he was torn between sadness and anger. This isn’t to say he wasn’t simultaneously excited. But he realized how much he would miss his friends and family. He worried that he’d be bored. Truthfully, I think he was a bit afraid of such a Huge Unknown. In his ten years, he’s experienced some pretty difficult stuff and it’s left him leaning heavily toward the hesitant side of life. Now here we were, and he was feeling as if the security we’ve built for ourselves was being stripped away. It’s a big world out there and it’s already proven to sometimes be scary.

This went on for awhile. Some days  – many days – I didn’t handle it well. Truthfully, my own excitement was building and I was feeling resentful for his raining over my parade. I didn’t want to be pulled into the emotional upset and away from the budding joy. Internally, I didn’t think I had the energy to handle it.

On those days I tried to rationalize with him, remind him how much fun we’d have, how many more friends we’ll see and make, how many things we’ll have the opportunity to do. I took lots of deep breaths and left the room countless times. It’s not that I didn’t understand him. It’s that I was too wrapped up in my own expectations to react to his needs.

He doesn’t need to be rationalized with or reminded that he had once agreed. He needs to mourn what we are leaving behind, so that he can be prepared to move ahead.

Zeb has always needed a slow transition. He’s slow to get out of bed, slow to stop one thing and start another. We work with this by giving him plenty of notice before we leave, before we eat, before company comes.

And this anger and sadness was the beginning phase of a very big transition. All he needed from me was a place to vent, some validation over what will surely suck and some patience. So I finally stopped rationalizing or talking him out of his emotions. I stopped trying to fix it. (Wait. I thought I learned this one already?)

I allowed myself to be his emotional punching bag.

He needed a safe place to let it all out. And with lots of deep breaths and quiet reminders to myself to keep my mouth shut, I became that place. Sometimes he yelled, other times he cried. Sometimes he questioned and voiced concern. Some days he talked excitedly and made plans. At one point he blamed us for ruining his life and called us names, hating us with conviction. And that’s about when I was suddenly able to see past my own expectations and look with compassion on my son who was grieving a loss in advance.

And as soon as I managed to stay present and compassionate during his storm, it passed. In a matter of an hour he went from total meltdown to cuddling in our arms. In the end he gave us a look that resembled a Thank You, a hug that said I Love You Too and he was off to conquer the day without the heavy emotional load dragging him down.

I’m not about to assume we’ve seen the end. He’s not that kind of kid. And he still has his moments of fear amid the moments of excitement, although they aren’t as explosive now. But if I can remember to breath and not take it personally, I know we’ll get through them, too.

There is plenty more to say on the subject of transitioning/moving/traveling with a highly-sensitive child. You could probably consider this Part One.

So we look away

Atrocities are easier to swallow

When blended with half truths

And sweetened with righteousness

Peace promoted through vengeance

Like a child’s immature retaliations

“Because they did it first”

And we shake our heads

Wondering at its failure

We rattle our fists

And swear to our gods

and take two eyes for one

Then leave our crumbling gold

To patch the wound

We arrogantly ask our children to fight

Denying all kinship

And diverting our vision

For as long as we don’t look for it

We’ll never have to see

Humanity in the eyes of our enemy.

© Tara Wagner