It would seem the new year is going to be one of learning for me. A valuable lesson taught within the first 24 hours.
Yesterday, my youngest daughter was tired, stretched and cranky after two weeks of junk food, late nights and over-stimulation. She was being uncooperative, difficult and pushing every single button I have. Normally, I can keep my cool when my children decide to test my patience. I remain the parent. But there I was, tired, stretched and cranky, after two weeks of junk food, late nights and over-stimulation. So, instead of her getting the mature “mother-like” response she deserved, she got an angry, child like response in return and it became a battle of wills. Who would win? The child or the childish.
I behaved poorly. Of that there can be no doubt. I threatened stupid consequences and forgot that I was the adult in this scenario. I also said dumb things. Hurtful things....to a six year old. I am hanging my head in shame as I write this. Our argument escalated and eventually she ended up in her room crying and I in the kitchen banging and clanging pots and pans for effect. Told you I was being immature.
I hear her steps coming down the hall and because I had banished her to her room until she was eighteen I was already turning over consequences in my head for this infraction. She stomped in and threw a note in the kitchen and stormed back to her room. I picked it up and that’s when my knees buckled.
Ouch. No, really. Ouch. That was the slap in the face I needed. I didn’t like me very much at that moment either. Tears streamed down my face and I walked down toward her room feeling very, very small. “Sweetie, can I talk to you?” She was still too upset to talk to me and gave me a resounding “NO!”. Picking my tail up between my legs I told her I’d give her some time and walked off to the other side of the house.
A short time later I heard tiny steps coming toward me. They hesitated in the hall and seemed to briefly turn back. I held my breath. Finally, a note came sliding across the floor.
I grab my pen and write her back.
I slip it under her door and listen. Then it comes, a cry unlike any I’ve heard from her before. It’s not loud and ear splitting but rather stifled and quiet, as if she didn’t want me to hear this one. A heartbreaking sob, so full of hurt and emotion that my heart shatters into a million pieces. I walk in and ask if I can have a hug, not sure which one of us needs it more. I hold on to this tiny little soul with all my might, hoping my hug will somehow undo the last hour of her life. I feel enormous relief that she is hugging me back. I feel unworthy. We sit on the floor hugging tightly for a very long time. When I finally speak, it’s to tell her that I’m sorry, that I behaved badly and that I didn’t set a very good example for her. I ask if she forgives me. There is little else I can do.
Within minutes, she is back on her way. Giggling, laughing, playing. Back to being six. I’m fairly certain she’ll forget about it. I, however, will not. I failed miserably. I walk around most of the time with a reasonable amount of confidence as a parent. I like to think I know what I’m doing. My six year old has humbled me and has reminded me that there is definitely room for improvement. Child 1, Childish 0.
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