Every Day Bravery
One aspect of being a Stay at Home Parent is that you’re often cast as the villain by your sweet little child. It’s inevitable, really, since you’re the one laying out the structure of the day, creating boundaries, denying and controlling and generally being a parent. All too easily they forget about the forts and the endless games of Hide and Seek and that they learned the phrases “cutest girl I ever seen” (or thereabouts) from you because that’s the joy that falls from your lips a thousand times a day because your kid is the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. There are days when I silently wish Nora will stumble, because she’ll run to me to kiss her boo-boos, soft and happy to be in my arms. Those thoughts tell me that, yes, maybe she has it right and I’m the Mommy Monster after all.
And we love our little terrors, with their tantrums and constant pushing; we want to be the heroes that the out of house parent are allowed to be because anyone can be amazing nights and weekends only, right? I’ve watched the news reports of Super Moms who lift cars to protect their child, in awe and petrified that I’d somehow fail in the heat of the moment. But I want to be amazing like that. Or see the wide-eyed wonder in my child’s eyes, for a brief span of time, that she usually reserves for her father. Because I’ve put the time in, haven’t I?
Other than day-dreaming and being jealous, I’m not given much opportunity to be brave for my daughter in a way that I know she can recognize. I’m brave in small ways; letting her get dressed herself, feed herself, pick her own clothes, walk down the stairs, create bonds with other people....generally being brave every second of the day because I’m giving her all the tools that will help her leave. And I’m strong enough to know that it’s the right thing, encouraging her to become autonomous because she’s a person and should be allowed to be treated as such.
About a week ago, I was able to exhibit actual bravery, at least, it was an act of bravery and valor as far as Nora was concerned. We were in the kitchen, getting dinner ready, when Nora spotted an eight-legged interloper making its way across the floor. She shrieked, her fat toddler feet slapping against the linoleum as she headed my way. When she reached me she threw her arms around my knees, smashing her face into my hip, hot breath huffing onto my skin through my jeans. Her words were jumbled because she was scared, but I got the gist - “There’s a spider, Mama! Kill it with fire!”
My brain immediately agreed, “Burn the whole house down. Send a message,” but my heart reminded me that it was a teaching moment and did I want Nora to solve her problems with violence and death in times of fear, or to think of a compromise, handling her fear so that she made better decisions? My brain said, “Balls,” and I bent down to smooth back her hair and tell her that Mama would handle it.
I went to the kitchen junk drawer (if you don’t have one, you’re a dirty liar) and pulled out a piece of paper, calmly explaining to Nora that the spider was scared and would be happier to go outside. She listened, tears in her eyes, from a fair distance away from the horrific beast, while I ushered the little guy onto a slip of paper and hurriedly walked it to the back door. Nora watched as I put the paper down, the spider happily crawling away into the grass.
“Spider go home, now?”
“Yes, spider went home.”
“Spider happy?”
“I think so.” (Probably not. We live in Texas and it’s hot outside.)
She nodded, hair flopping over one eye. “Thank you, Mama. Super brave.” She grinned, her eyes lit up from within, like I’d done the best thing ever in the history of ever.
It wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized that we’d managed to heal the fear of spiders with our little rescue mission. We were playing with Play Doh and Nora was making her usual outrageous demands, “Make-y cat. Now snail. Now house. Make-y better, Mama,” when she asked me to make a spider. So I did. A happy yellow spider for my brave girl.
And we love our little terrors, with their tantrums and constant pushing; we want to be the heroes that the out of house parent are allowed to be because anyone can be amazing nights and weekends only, right? I’ve watched the news reports of Super Moms who lift cars to protect their child, in awe and petrified that I’d somehow fail in the heat of the moment. But I want to be amazing like that. Or see the wide-eyed wonder in my child’s eyes, for a brief span of time, that she usually reserves for her father. Because I’ve put the time in, haven’t I?
Other than day-dreaming and being jealous, I’m not given much opportunity to be brave for my daughter in a way that I know she can recognize. I’m brave in small ways; letting her get dressed herself, feed herself, pick her own clothes, walk down the stairs, create bonds with other people....generally being brave every second of the day because I’m giving her all the tools that will help her leave. And I’m strong enough to know that it’s the right thing, encouraging her to become autonomous because she’s a person and should be allowed to be treated as such.
About a week ago, I was able to exhibit actual bravery, at least, it was an act of bravery and valor as far as Nora was concerned. We were in the kitchen, getting dinner ready, when Nora spotted an eight-legged interloper making its way across the floor. She shrieked, her fat toddler feet slapping against the linoleum as she headed my way. When she reached me she threw her arms around my knees, smashing her face into my hip, hot breath huffing onto my skin through my jeans. Her words were jumbled because she was scared, but I got the gist - “There’s a spider, Mama! Kill it with fire!”
My brain immediately agreed, “Burn the whole house down. Send a message,” but my heart reminded me that it was a teaching moment and did I want Nora to solve her problems with violence and death in times of fear, or to think of a compromise, handling her fear so that she made better decisions? My brain said, “Balls,” and I bent down to smooth back her hair and tell her that Mama would handle it.
I went to the kitchen junk drawer (if you don’t have one, you’re a dirty liar) and pulled out a piece of paper, calmly explaining to Nora that the spider was scared and would be happier to go outside. She listened, tears in her eyes, from a fair distance away from the horrific beast, while I ushered the little guy onto a slip of paper and hurriedly walked it to the back door. Nora watched as I put the paper down, the spider happily crawling away into the grass.
“Spider go home, now?”
“Yes, spider went home.”
“Spider happy?”
“I think so.” (Probably not. We live in Texas and it’s hot outside.)
She nodded, hair flopping over one eye. “Thank you, Mama. Super brave.” She grinned, her eyes lit up from within, like I’d done the best thing ever in the history of ever.
It wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized that we’d managed to heal the fear of spiders with our little rescue mission. We were playing with Play Doh and Nora was making her usual outrageous demands, “Make-y cat. Now snail. Now house. Make-y better, Mama,” when she asked me to make a spider. So I did. A happy yellow spider for my brave girl.
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