Te bagh…

The energy is bristling. 105 teams comprising kids from nearly 40 countries. The Lego World Championship is loud, noisy, high-energy, exhausting, amazing.

So much to take in. So much innovation and ingenuity at so many levels. Even if our young team of 4^th and 5^th graders widen their eyes and drop their jaws as they watch the big robots battle and form alliances (robots that high schoolers have built), I wonder how much of all this they are able to take in.

A zillion fun and exciting things happen. They meet kids from all over the world, they collect candy from all over the world. Sugar-rushed, they run, they leap, they shout, they even participate in a parade before a Cardinals game at the ballpark. They take it in. Yet, I notice amazing things – things they may be too young to comprehend.

A certain Middle Eastern team catches my eye. A mixed team of girls and boys. The girls are traditionally dressed in their hijab or head scarves. Yet team, or perhaps teen spirit seems to rule, and multi-colored dazzling lighted neon strings pour out from over their heads, from over their black hijabs. They match nicely the multi-colored neon head gears the boys wear. It makes me smile. I love these girls, conforming to their beliefs, yet displaying their teenage spirit and verve.

I wonder what it must mean for these girls to be part of a robotics team, to be here. I chat with them. I understand there are familial and societal challenges they have overcome, that it means so much for them to be here, that their participation is an inspiration to other girls in their country, in the Middle East region. I feel an inexplicable joy at their being there.  

“You ask me to bagh a lot” my kid tells me. Puzzled, till I realize she’s using a Marathi word in an English sentence.

“Te bagh,” I often say to her in Marathi, check that out, in English. Something noteworthy, notice-worthy -- according to me. I laugh. I suppose I do.

As parents, we want to point out what is interesting, important, curious, worth noticing… in our eyes. Our kids have their own energy and perspectives – which even if may not match ours, is a joy to share in, share with.

On their last robot performance round, seven small faces stare intensely at the robot table. Previous rounds have not gone quite as desired and on one round, their pineapple bot (robot name), even decides to power down.

Every part of their being seems to focus on the robot. For months on end, this pineapple bot has been programmed and reprogrammed, its limbs (read extensions) built and rebuilt, amputated, restored, tweaked, teased… its moment has arrived. And pineapple bot decides to rise to the occasion.

Even if the score is not high enough to win a prize, they achieve the best score possible for them. And they are beyond themselves in delight.

We watch them, we experience that inexplicable joy of watching your kids achieve the maximum potential possible for them.

There are tears in many a parent eye, the jubilation is bigger than the time they are declared state champions. For in that moment, each parent and child is completely present and participating, bated breath, and in tandem. We are experiencing the joy and success with them, through them. There is no prize, but victory seems huge.

We celebrate our children. As we must. Sometimes, we celebrate even when it seems like the last thing we want for them. As my then six-year-old climbs over 30 feet high on a conifer in the park, calling out, waving in delight with one hand. I gasp inwardly, and in the best even-keel voice possible, shout, “It’s okay to not wave when you’re so high”. I hide my panic and share her achievement and joy.

The joy in sharing their joy and perspective is inexplicable. Even if it is ours, it is bigger and better than many things that bring us joy in other ways. But again, every parent knows that.

And even if my child doesn't say te bagh to me, hopefully, when it matters, I will bagh, and I will share the moment...