I wrote a little blurb on fb the other day, but I thought you might like to know what your afternoon was like so I'm posting it here as well:
Went to the park in the early evening yesterday. Had Zoë calling for "Thunderbunny" through the woods, a main character of a book her daddy's been reading to her at night. She climbed up into my lap as I sat on a swing and her chest leaned into mine. I swung gently back and forth. She pressed her cheek against my cheek and her hair blew across my face and I just basked in the sun-baked sweetness of my little girl laughing and clinging to me tight as today does tomorrow. In that brief moment, I had no doubts about God, no doubts about life, no doubts at all, just joy. If there is a Heaven for me, it will be an afternoon just like yesterday.
Another little post about one of our mundane moments:
"go away mommy" she says as she literally pushes me back from her car seat. Her eyes are shadowed; her lips pulled thin on the razor's edge of a hissy-fit brewing deep in her tiny, full-moon belly.
I have the power to force it. I'm the adult here and I do outweigh her by (ahem) hundreds of pounds after all. I could steal a kiss or coerce her into a hug. I have an ingrained sense of entitle
ment. I carried her body in my body. I have taken care of her needs when she was incapable of doing even the basics. The authoritarian in me is eager to crush this little act of insubordination.
There's a moment of hesitation. I look again with my mama eyes instead of my inner potentate and see a little girl who has had a tough day. She's tired and doesn't feel well. Her playmates today refused to play with her. All. day. long. Now I don't know about anyone else, but I know that when I experience even the slightest hint of rejection, my self-esteem definitely falters, and she had a full day of exposure.
Despite her size and age, my daughter is still her own person. I make the decision to respect that and to respect her wishes. I tell her that mommy is hurt by her choice, but still loves her and I wish her a good night. I let go. I step back. I wave good-bye as the van pulls away.
I'll be thinking about this little episode long after she's forgotten it, but it is not her place to be my mood pick-me-up and I'm not going to force that role on her. Life is called a gift for many reasons, but one of them I believe is that even though her life may have come through her daddy and I, she doesn't owe me for that. It's a freebie.
What I want her to remember most of all is that she has the right to choose her actions in this life and when she gives her love, it will be freely, without coercion or coaxing. I'm here to guide her. I'll make sure she knows right from wrong and that she values compassion towards others, but I'm strong enough in my motherhood now that one tiny act of testing boundaries doesn't make me feel threatened that she's going to grow up into a conscienceless hooligan. I want her to have faith in herself and sometimes that means accepting her exactly as she is, even when it's less that I would hope for.
And when I get home tonight after work and I slip into the bedroom of a peacefully slumbering Zoë, I might just sneak in a tiny little peck on the cheek after all.
Not really my typical letters to you, but I thought they might be interesting to you none-the-less.
I love you with all my heart,
Mama
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