A few twists of a wrench and the training wheels were gone, two metal and rubber relics on the cellar floor. I scooped them up to carry them to recycling, but my six-year-old son stopped me. “I want to keep them, Dad,” he said, “because I want to remember.”
Outside I prepared to run alongside his bike, holding the back of the seat while he got the hang of balancing while in motion and putting his feet down on stopping. I didn’t get to. As we hit the sidewalk outside our Brooklyn apartment building he hopped on his bike and took off. In a few seconds he was at the end of the block, wheeling around and zooming back.
I pumped my arms in the air. Woo-hoo! The kid was a natural. The training wheels were off as if they’d never been on. I set up brightly colored rubber cones. He wove through them and easily took the tight turn I’d made. His face was radiant. Big boy now! I understood the meaning of the word pride as never before. Upstairs he raced to report to Mom, who’d hidden ice cream bars in the freezer in anticipation of his triumph.
For most families that would be the end of the story, the highlight of an early summer day. In ours a big accomplishment like that is followed by big acting out. We braced for it. Sure enough, by dinner time our kid was testing us in the extreme. Mom shot me a look that said your turn (which it was) and got out of the way. I ground through bath time with tight-lipped, barely in-check forbearance.
As I dried him off I somehow mentally stepped back. “You know, kid,” I said, “you did something big today and got a lot of praise. That can be scary, huh?” He went limp in his towel. “It can make you wonder what else could change. Well, it doesn’t change anything. We’re still a family and always will be. The only difference is that now you can ride without training wheels.”
Tooth brushing, pajamas and bedtime books went smoothly after that. Mom joined in for cuddle time and lights out. “I’m sorry, Mom, that I was rude,” he said quietly, head on his pillow. Mom kissed him on the forehead. “I know, and I love you.” Once he was asleep we rewarded ourselves with stiff drinks. As adoptive parents we’ve been riding without training wheels for a while now.
So, in the story I just told you which was the catharsis and which was the catalyst? Take a moment. Got it? You’re right: Riding without training wheels was the catalyst, the catharsis was the tantrum hour that followed. What the catharsis released (again) was an adopted kid’s fear of being sent or taken away (again). When the storm passed he was our sweet son again.
Catharsis is a storm followed by a release of something inside. It is preceded by a catalyst, an event that causes the storm to break. In your WIP, what is the catalyst event that causes the seething pot of your protagonist’s inner conflicts to boil over? How does your protagonist act out? What is released? What change results?
Here are some prompts to help heighten these effects: [Read more…]