Meaning What You Say

I've never been one to say exactly what was on my mind.

I've always wanted to be that way. I know people like that, and I've always assumed that their lives were somehow less complicated because they didn't hold onto the regret that sometimes accompanies biting one's tongue.

But, instead, it has always been my nature to smile and keep my thoughts to myself where they could inflict no harm.

Of course, there are occasions that required a response, or situations where remaining silent would have negative consequences--for me or someone I love. And in those instances I do not hesitate to speak up. But those situations aren't the norm.

Having kids has made me a bit more vocal, for their sakes if nothing else. And I've always thought getting older would make me care less who I offended. But that's not really true.

I spoke up today about something nagging and irritating, something I would have easily dismissed with that smile and bite of the tongue ten years ago.  It wasn't a major injustice or wrong; but it was a personal injustice, one that spoke against my character and made me feel belittled and unappreciated. And no one should be made to feel that way.

So I stood up for myself.

At the time, it felt good to be brave. I was overcome with a heady confidence. It was the first step toward being the new less-accommodating, more-outspoken me.

Those feelings lasted a short while before the unfounded guilt set in. Oddly, though I was in the right, because the other party never accepted fault, my triumph was somehow significantly diminished.

It was never about being right and proving the others wrong; but I guess I hoped that, by standing up and speaking my mind, I might earn a well-deserved apology... or, at the very least, acknowledgment that I had stepped far beyond my comfort zone and the gamble paid off.

In the end, I didn't get any of that. And here I am, still worried about how what I said affected the other party when I'm sure I am the last person on that individual's mind right now.

At least I meant what I said; I will stand firmly by it.

And maybe one day this speaking my mind business will get easier - if only I can accept that my attempts to be true to myself won't always be met by truth from others.

Putting It in Perspective

My oldest and I had a horrible night last night.

She just didn't want to do anything I asked her to do. She wouldn't hold still; she wouldn't be quiet; she wouldn't get ready for a bath; she wouldn't let me wash her hair; and, eventually, she wouldn't stop crying.

And there was a moment where I lost my temper and yelled at her - really yelled at her - which, of course, led to her screaming at the top of her lungs. If the neighbors could hear, they might have thought we were filming the murder scene from a low-budget slasher flick. It really was that bad. 

When it was all said and done, she said, through her sniffles, "Mama, remember, you are supposed to count to ten before you yell."

And, after a deep breath, I explained, "Honey, I counted to ten at least five times."

After she was asleep, I found myself thinking about a better way to handle the entire situation. I know why she behaved the way she did. She was tired. And she is four. But I had to ask myself, why did I behave the way I did? 

Do you ever find yourself in that position? Wondering if you are doing it right? Wondering what long-lasting effects the decisions you make today will have on your children? Or even, simply, if your kids really know how much you love them and how much you do to ensure they are happy and healthy?

I found myself in one of those difficult moments of self-reflection just before I fell asleep. 

Of course, this morning, she was her happy-go-lucky self. And I made a silent promise to be more patient, especially when that happy-go-lucky girl grows tired and fussy.

Aleigh and I don't get a lot of time together just us, so we really treasure our mornings. We tell stories on the way to school, we take our time getting in to the classroom, and I always write a message on the inside of her hand before I tell her goodbye. But I am usually preoccupied with getting to work on time. I'm usually nagging her to hurry, wondering why she didn't eat her breakfast, and prying her off of me (because the daycare before school just isn't her favorite place to be). 

But this morning, even though we followed the exact same routine, everything was different. And it was all about this mama's perspective. 

We arrived at school at the same time as another mother and her daughter; the mom was chatting away on her cell as she dragged her little girl through the parking lot and up the stairs. She told her to hurry over her shoulder at least once. 

We've all been there, so I am passing no judgment here. I feel that working mama's pain, for sure. I know I have hurried Aleigh more than I wish I had to; I know I've been distracted by a phone call when my attention should have been focused on something more important. 

But this morning, especially after the evening we had, I saw that scene from that little girl's perspective. I imagined not wanting to go to "the waiting place" (as Aleigh so affectionately calls it) and the anxiety that accompanies that feeling. I wondered what it would be like to not tell stories or sing along with the radio during "our" time.

Aleigh before school one day.

So, even though we were running late and it was really cold outside, I was glad to giggle as we wiggled her arms into her coat when we got out of the truck; it didn't bother me that the clock continued to tick as she showed me a piece of construction paper pumpkin pie on which she'd practiced her name that hung above the coat racks; I didn't hurry her as she pointed out different details of her classroom that she's shown me numerous times before.

As the last step in our morning ritual, instead of hurriedly drawing "I <3 U" on her palm, I wrote out the words because, somehow, they had more meaning that way. And I hugged her extra tight and really let her words, "I love you, Mama," sink in before she ran off to play with her friends. 

Any lingering insecurities from the previous night melted away as I hurried back to the truck because I realized that doing my best is enough. My daughter won't remember one difficult night. But she will remember belting Belle Brigade's "I Didn't Mean It" at the top of our lungs anytime it comes on the radio. She will remember the fantastic adventures we experience in our stories.

And, above all, she'll remember the impact of those three little comforting words--three words that make "the waiting place" a little less scary, the boo-boos sting a little less, and the raised voice a little less harsh when counting to ten doesn't do the trick. <3