Have you ever had one of those mornings when you literally got out of bed on the wrong side? You were so tired from doing homework until way past your normal bed time, that it took you about 10 minutes to orient your mind as to where you were as your Mother said your name over and over to wake you up. Even after she left the room you sat staring a nothing in particular. After many echoes of your name, you slowly drag yourself to the bright lights of the bathroom to finally be forced to welcome the world with a toothpaste laden brush. After the hygienic ritual, you search and search for the perfect attire in a quagmire of clothing that represents freshly washed clothes randomly mixed with yesterday and last weeks wardrobe that forgot to jump into the hamper. “It’s hopeless! I can’t go to school!” You sit and melt with frustration for far too many minutes than your Mom can allow. More shouts of your name from the kitchen with a predestined time frame for you to make an appearance before you will be LEFT AT HOME. “No!” You quickly grab those favorite jeans, a shirt that only you can rock and begin determining which hairstyle will match the overall look you are going for. You brush thoroughly and set a high front pony carefully off to one side. Then you remove the pony because it wasn’t actually working with the look of the day and you start over. Again your name is called with an impatient tone from the other room. Oh well, you decide to bring your brush, pony and maybe a hat to create that special must have look in the car. You make the highly anticipated entrance to the chaotic kitchen and are welcomed with bold maternal eyes that glance at the grandfather clock whose long hand is dipping deep in crises mode. At warp speed, which is quite honestly a notch above turtle in your world, you manage to construct a lunch fit for a queen (or at least fit for anyone who loves a peanut butter sandwich). You grab an apple and a breakfast bar to appease the parental disapproval, fill your arms with your JC Penney patterned material backpack, not at all matching but still way cool lunch pack, hair style accessories, jean jacket, socks, boots and you attempt to make a mad dash out the door onto the 19 degree concrete. It was such a perfect plan until your strap or who knows what catches on the door knob sending you in a backwards fight against gravity. Picking up any items that you dropped in the unfortunate incident, you chase the car as it begins its takeoff to the land of kids and books. Whew! You made it. You hop in the front seat, attach the safety restraint and within 2 mississippi’s you begin to cry. “I hate that DOOR!” As if the door was the sole reason for your tardiness. It is the absolute WORST DAY EVER! Of course much of the reason is because nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. You are just so mistreated. None of this would have happened if you were loved. As you weep uncontrollably with your head facing an exact 45 degrees to the right of your guardian, quite certain you are invisible this way, a very soft cold hand grabs yours. Temporarily halting the tears, you look at the driver. She tells you, “I love you.” All of a sudden you feel a sense of relief. Like maybe you just might be ok. By the end of the drive you let go of your Mother’s hand with an assurance that life is good. You pray together before leaving the comfort of your Mother’s care and exercising your own independence proudly among your besties knowing you are loved.
This was my daughter today. I have made assumptions as to her actual mind dialog and feelings, but only for making light of a situation that probably for many kids doesn’t end the same way. I was very upset with her. I did ground her because it is important that somehow she develop responsibly. I am not the perfect parent. I make far too many mistakes. The bottom line is my love for my little girl regardless of her prepubescent emotions. The truth is love can wipe away tears and put a warm jacket on tween, teenage or adult attitudes. That exercise in sharing effected me as well. It warmed my heart to tears of joy. I may be imperfect, but I do love my daughter.