When I woke up on Friday morning, our cupboards were nearly bare. Even the fridge light was out! We were in desperate need of a trip to the supermarket. So I made my (long) list, got both kids dressed and ready, and headed out the door.
We went to Kroger first, and I told Simone that if she sat in the cart at Kroger, she could walk at Trader Joe’s. She seemed happy with that compromise. We didn’t buy anything refrigerated at Kroger, so we went straight to TJ’s afterward.
The trip was a mess from the start. James had a diaper blowout in the car, so I cleaned him up and then put him in the sling, which he normally loves. Instead, he was fidgety and enraged from having his nap interrupted. He was so fussy that I couldn’t get him adjusted comfortably, and Simone took the opportunity to wander obliviously all over the store’s entryway. For some reason, TJ’s was PACKED, and Simone was standing in the way of just about everybody.
One of the employees started pushing a line of carts out the door, and Simone walked out in front of him. He saw her and tried to stop, but the last cart nudged her gently. She froze. James was still hollering and people started maneuvering their carts past Simone while shooting me pointed glances. I asked her several times, calmly, to come into the store with me, but she wouldn’t. She ran her hands along the windows, along the carts. I told her we were just going to go home. No reaction.
I wanted to cry. It had been a busy morning already, both kids were melting down, the store was busy. I hissed some unsavory things at my daughter. I hated listening to myself, even as the words were forming in my mouth. “Simone Josephine, you get over here right now. You’re in the way! MOVE. We are going to go home even if I have to drag you across the parking lot.”
And finally, I looked down at my little girl’s face and saw the set line of her mouth, and her downcast eyes, and her hands still clutching the shopping list. She seemed so small to me then.
I stopped. I crouched, took her hand in mine, and asked her if she would help me find some apples. Her eyes sparkled a little and she held my hand and walked with me. Within a minute and a half, she was helping to pick out carrots and lemons and cheese.
So often, I opt for anger instead of patience. I forget that my daughter doesn’t respond to harsh tones or yelling. I forget that she is not yet three, and the world is a big and foreign place. I forget that my own behavior shapes hers. That night, we sat on the couch together and she ate blueberry yogurt like a cat (which is to say, licking it from the bowl) while I read to her from an animal encyclopedia. I still felt heavy and downtrodden from the way I’d treated her, but she was perfectly content.
My mom dispensed a bit of wisdom recently, and I keep turning the words over in my head:
“Luckily, your children will forgive much and forget more. Every day, sometimes every hour, is a new start for them.”
Simone is becoming quite a sponge. She hears everything and understands more than we’d like. I feel the need for a new start myself. To make family meals a priority again, spend less time in front of my computer, take my kids outside more, stop relying on television as a babysitter. Jason thinks I’m too hard on myself, but I know I’m not the mom I’m capable of being. Not yet.
