Gleek writhes on the kitchen chair, an abject bundle of misery. “But Mom! I’m just not hungry!”
I look down at her plate with its four neat little piles of food, two of which have been nibbled. I’ve been trying to get Gleek to eat dinner for 20 minutes now. All the other children have gone. I want to be gone too. I do not want to stand here and make my child miserable. I don’t like to see her cry. I also do not like watching my kids skip a healthy dinner only to come snacking on treat foods ten minutes later.
“There are four piles of food on your plate, just eat two of them. You can pick which two.” It is a bargain. I’ve slid from my position of requiring her to eat everything. The give in my position is due to the fact that part of me is aware that she truly might not feel hungry. I feel horribly mean and abusive. Part of me whispers that Gleek is going to remember this event, that years from now she will be bemoaning her abused childhood to some therapist. I can feel the therapist’s eyes staring through the years to scrutinize my actions. I don’t much care about the therapist’s opinion, but I never want to be the cause for Gleek to need one. And so I back away from my original declaration, trying to be fair, trying to make peace.
But Gleek does not accept the peace offering. She begins shaking her head, flipping her hair wildly. Some of it trails through the food. She’ll need a bath after this. “Just leave me alone Mom! Leave me alone! I’m not hungry!”
My patience has worn so thin that it is more holes than anything else. It is not just this battle of wills, but the unending stream of battles over small things all day long. Gleek has had a difficult day. As a result, so have I. For some reason all of her joys and frustrations have been magnified far out of proportion and I have had to reign them in, to make sure that her exuberant energy doesn’t cause her to wallop another child with her jump rope, to make sure that she doesn’t shove her brother because he won’t play her way. I am tired. And I am angry. I am mad at my daughter for being so out of control today. I want to be done fighting, but I am aware that she can not learn control if I let out-of-control behaviors go unchecked. If I let her win I’m just going to face more battles. Bigger battles.
Fortunately Howard comes to our rescue. He heard the shouting, both hers and mine. It was probably mine that summoned him, because she has been shouting all day. Howard brings Gleek under control far more thoroughly and effectively than I ever can. He is all sympathy with her in-control behavior and stern and scolding with the other. He does not back down on his position as I so often do. Within a matter of minutes, he has Gleek sitting quietly and eating her bites.
She is so small sitting there, eyes red, sniffling, chewing. Her every movement is contrite. I watch her and wonder what story she is telling herself about this event. Are we the big mean parents who made her eat when she wasn’t hungry? Or does she know that she was over the line? Is she telling herself how awful she is and that she is a bad girl? I don’t want her to believe any of those stories. I want her to see herself as I do. I want her to see the amazingly strong girl who is filled with huge impulses that she has to wrestle with every day. I want her to see how often she does curb and control herself. I want her to see how bright and glorious and intelligent she is. I want her to understand that we all lose control of ourselves sometimes and we just have to pick up and try to do better next time. I want her to see her choices that led to this battle. Then I want her to see my choices as well. Most of all I want us both to choose something else next time.
“Do you want to sit in my lap while you finish your bites?” It is a peace offering from me.
Gleek nods and I scoop her into my lap. She wiggles her shoulders so that one nestles under my arm. A sigh shivers her whole body. It is answered by one from me. We have reached the calm after the storm. My arms wrap around her, both of us relishing the comfort of touch. There are no words as she finishes eating her bites. I have a hundred things I want to make her understand, but there will be time for that later. For now words will only shatter the peace which still feels fragile.
When the required food has been eaten, Gleek hops off my lap and runs to go play. Within minutes she is giggling with her brothers. She is as happy as if the storm never existed. Not so for me. I still feel shipwrecked; left sorting through the wreckage on the beach; trying to figure out how to cobble something together that will let me sail the dangerous waters of bedtime. Fortunate for me, I am not alone. Howard’s ship is not smashed and, though the passage is tricky, we all survive the trip.
I am not perfect. Howard is not perfect. None of the kids are perfect. Sometimes all those imperfections crash into each other and we are left standing in the midst of wreckage that none of us intended to create. At such times the best we can do is pick up the mess and try to go on, try to be better, try not to err in the same way again. It comforts me this evening to repeat, as did Anne of Green Gables, that tomorrow is a fresh day with no mistakes in it.