What is this confidence you speak of?

Yesterday morning, Kyler sat at the breakfast table with a big smile across his face, happily eating his cereal.  I asked what he was so happy about and he looked at me and said, "I don't know why I'm smiling on a Wednesday.  I don't usually care about Wednesdays but I'm really happy today."  And then, "...Oh yeah!  I get to present my habitat diorama to my class today!  That's why I'm in such a good mood."  I asked if that meant that he had to stand up in front of his entire class and tell about his project and he beamed, "Yep!  And I can't wait!"  Then Mae, who had been glumly staring off into space, chimed in, "Ooh!  I forgot!!  I get to present my finger-weaving directions to my teachers today!" She was instantly chipper. 

I tried not to show my shock, but I just do not even know where my children came from.  I mean, I know where they came from, but I don't know how they're mine.  They are so very unlike me.  I was terrified of the entire human race when I was their ages.  Parents, students and teachers alike.  They could all throw me into panic mode just by looking in my general direction.  And to stand up and talk in front of them?  No.  Way.  My second grade teacher once asked me to read a poem in front of my class and I started crying and told her that there was a heartbeat in my eyeball and I had to go to the nurse's office immediately.  I remember how she looked at me, dumbfounded, and I didn't even give her a chance to say anything before I found myself headed down the empty hallway to the nurses office.  I stayed there for over an hour, promising that there was something wrong with my eyeball.  The nurse eventually made me return to class.  I walked in and sat down, pretending like nothing strange had happened.  And my teacher never asked me to read anything again after that. 

When the kids got home yesterday afternoon, I approached the subject cautiously, worried that their presentations didn't go as planned (like everything I ever presented in my lifetime thus far).  Kyler said that it went well and he thinks he got a good grade.  But Mae...well, apparently her whole class thought that finger-weaving was really cool and they all wanted to learn how, so she was asked to teach them.  So she did.  The entire class, all at once.  Like a teacher.

It took me about twenty-two years before I felt comfortable enough to ask directions from a stranger.  And here's Mae, eight years old, teaching multiple humans how to finger-weave at the same time. 

The only thing that makes sense is that I must have paid it forward.  For every awkward moment I had as a child (which was basically every moment of my existence), my children get a glorious moment. 

Some people are proud of their kids when they win trophies or spelling bees or get a scholarship.  I am simply happy that my kids are able to speak in audible voices and have friends and don't freeze up when spoken to by an adult.  And when they do get awards, you'll find me hyperventilating in the corner, a mess of tears and sweat, so proud that I'm certain I will actually combust.  Watch out.