Imperfect
I slept in this morning and woke to the off key singing of my two year old. Suddenly, my bedroom door swings open, rough against the high pile carpet, and two tousled blond heads run to bed. They burrow under my warm blankets and rub their cold feet against my body, one on either side of me. I readjust and get an arm around each of their soft bodies. It's quiet for a space of 4 seconds and I breathe them and love and peace in. I armor myself for a day of whining and parenting doubts with these few, amazing seconds.
Because the whining sets in as soon as one asks for breakfast and the doubt sets in as soon as the other refuses to eat the smoothie she requested and cries over the lumps of blackberries she insisted on adding. Sigh.
And as the day wears on and I fight more whining, more overly dramatic crying over such tragedies as a stubbed toe, one sister wearing another sister's goggles and me suggesting we brush their teeth, I wonder if I'm doing this right. Some nights, my husband comes home just in time for the crowning whines of the day and after exercising patience and then getting to the end of his tether, asks why are our kids like this? And I feel, if I don't say, that this must be my fault. Because, if not me, then whom? I'm the SAHM, WAHM part time, whatever. Thus, I spend more time molding them then anyone else. So if they act like brats, it must be my fault.
I know I am too sensitive to the look of exasperation my daughter's preschool teacher gives after spending 7 hours with 5 year olds, but I think, "is it my kid?" when I see it. When my oldest goes through a phase where she refuses to kiss anyone and a member of our family gets all butt hurt about it and comments that well behaved children do what they're asked to do...well, I respond that a girl refusing to let some one touch her in a way that makes her uncomfortable is not a discipline issue but a way to learn strength in her feelings. But inside I waiver and wonder if he's right, just a little bit.
It's a week after the kissing embargo of 2015, two full weeks of letting my daughter know that if she doesn't want me to kiss her I won't kiss her. After many hugs and talks about it being her body and her decision how people can touch her; she kisses me and asks for my kisses back. I'm the first one she asks.
This morning, after I couldn't take one more second of whining about lumpy smoothies, I announce that until she takes a single bite there will be no other breakfast and I walk out of the kitchen. Deep breaths. Pad, pad, pad. Her little feet run down the hall two minutes later. She walks towards me with outstretched arms and asks for a hug. She holds me tight long after I am ready to release her. She isn't happy about me or what I told her but she loves me and she will try a bite. She did. She still didn't like the smoothie. But I feel stronger. I think I'm doing this parenting thing okay. Are my girls paradigms of well behaved children? No. Will they embarrass me in the grocery store occasionally? Yes. But they are loving and smart and learning lessons it took me thirty years to understand and implement. I am so imperfect. Why do I expect to raise children perfectly? Why do I expect tiny, new humans to be perfect? We're all growing together, one day at a time.
Because the whining sets in as soon as one asks for breakfast and the doubt sets in as soon as the other refuses to eat the smoothie she requested and cries over the lumps of blackberries she insisted on adding. Sigh.
And as the day wears on and I fight more whining, more overly dramatic crying over such tragedies as a stubbed toe, one sister wearing another sister's goggles and me suggesting we brush their teeth, I wonder if I'm doing this right. Some nights, my husband comes home just in time for the crowning whines of the day and after exercising patience and then getting to the end of his tether, asks why are our kids like this? And I feel, if I don't say, that this must be my fault. Because, if not me, then whom? I'm the SAHM, WAHM part time, whatever. Thus, I spend more time molding them then anyone else. So if they act like brats, it must be my fault.
I know I am too sensitive to the look of exasperation my daughter's preschool teacher gives after spending 7 hours with 5 year olds, but I think, "is it my kid?" when I see it. When my oldest goes through a phase where she refuses to kiss anyone and a member of our family gets all butt hurt about it and comments that well behaved children do what they're asked to do...well, I respond that a girl refusing to let some one touch her in a way that makes her uncomfortable is not a discipline issue but a way to learn strength in her feelings. But inside I waiver and wonder if he's right, just a little bit.
It's a week after the kissing embargo of 2015, two full weeks of letting my daughter know that if she doesn't want me to kiss her I won't kiss her. After many hugs and talks about it being her body and her decision how people can touch her; she kisses me and asks for my kisses back. I'm the first one she asks.
This morning, after I couldn't take one more second of whining about lumpy smoothies, I announce that until she takes a single bite there will be no other breakfast and I walk out of the kitchen. Deep breaths. Pad, pad, pad. Her little feet run down the hall two minutes later. She walks towards me with outstretched arms and asks for a hug. She holds me tight long after I am ready to release her. She isn't happy about me or what I told her but she loves me and she will try a bite. She did. She still didn't like the smoothie. But I feel stronger. I think I'm doing this parenting thing okay. Are my girls paradigms of well behaved children? No. Will they embarrass me in the grocery store occasionally? Yes. But they are loving and smart and learning lessons it took me thirty years to understand and implement. I am so imperfect. Why do I expect to raise children perfectly? Why do I expect tiny, new humans to be perfect? We're all growing together, one day at a time.
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