She Simply Says His Name
I’m overstimulated, walking through the Winter Festival, searching for my girl. Overheated and carrying too much in my arms, with both our coats and the bag of junk I bought but don’t need in order to support the school, I’m exasperated by the whole scene.
The last few times I’ve spotted Tate, she was chasing after a girl who’s not so kind to her. Why does she keep doing this? I don’t understand. I just want to leave.
I spot Tate, grab her and tell her it’s time to go. No doubt, too sharply. She pulls back and tries to pretend she didn’t hear me. I warn her that I mean it.
As I hand off her coat to her, I ask if she wants to grab what she made from the art room on our way out - expecting yes as the only answer. When she nonchalantly shrugs, “Nah, I don’t need it,” I’m unduly appalled.
I ask again, as if I hadn’t already. She repeats herself and explains that she just popped in there for fun and didn’t feel the need to go find what she made to bring home.
Still, not accepting this, I turn toward the art room. “We’re gonna just get it.”
The art room is packed. We make our way through the people to a ‘done’ table filled with a hundred mini clay snowmen the different age kiddos had made throughout the morning. Some are intricately decorated. I see some of her classmates, amidst the chaos, intently focused on making theirs. I ask Tate where hers is.
She puffs out her lower lip and pulls her shoulders up and down slowly. The noise and crowd have clearly gotten to her, too.
Demanding we search, we go table to table until she finally says, “I think this one’s mine.” I doubted if it was or not, aloud.
It’s a two snowball snowman about an inch tall with two messy pencil indents for eyes and an orange triangular nose. At least, it has an acorn cap atop his head, I tell myself.
I question whether she’s sure it’s hers, more than once. Though Tate visibly deflates, I don’t stop. My eyes take in all the other snowmen - bigger ones with three or four balls, ones with creative yarn scarves around their necks, ones with hair, buttons, clever stick arms and more elaborate faces.
“Do you want to sit down and put a little more effort into your guy?”
“No, mom. I don’t. Let’s just go.”
“Are you sure, honey? We can take five minutes so you could add a scarf or something. Doesn't this one here look so adorable with that bright red scarf? It’d take no time.”
I’ve no idea why I’m doing this, attempting to sweeten my voice when I’m sweating and just want out of the school. And yet, I go on.
“Come on, honey. Ohhhh, look at this one. And this one with the hilarious gnome hat!”
Tate studies me with anger (hurt underneath, I can tell).
“Let’s go, Mom. I thought we had to go!”
She makes her way out the art room door. I shout, “Hey, can you grab your guy? My arms are too full!”
“I don’t even want him…” And out she goes.
I scoop him up and balance him in my palm, restraining myself from grabbing more supplies to have her add to him once we’re back home.
While we unload everything into the car, I juggle to balance the little snowman in my hand. When I look up, Tate is already buckled. I’m now even more annoyed. Though clearly tired and not liking myself, I blame it on being frustrated by Tate’s seeming ingratitude and attitude.
As I open my car door to get in, the little guy drops to the pavement. His nose breaks and his hat falls off. I drop to my belly to reach for it as it rolls under the car. Tate barely watches me.
I get in, dirty, complaining and acting sad about the broken little art piece. When Tate barks that she doesn’t care about the stupid snoman, and I hear tears being tightly held in the bottom of her throat, I finally soften.
“I only wanted to save your artwork honey, because I love to see what you create and I’m sad he dropped. We can fix him, don’t worry…”
“Mom, that’s not true! You wanted him to look different. YOU are the one who wanted to even bring him home. I didn’t really care and anyway just made him quickly for fun.
But you insisted we bring him home and suggested all the things I could do to make him better and …”
That’s when it hit me. That damn judgment gene I inherited.
I’d been judging myself incessantly all morning, not being interested in smooshing with other parents, uncomfortable with small talk and comparing myself to other moms.
And I’d put it all on Tate. Judged the heck out of her experience, her artwork, HER. And now here I was, being called out for it.
I let my tears rise and fall, bit my bottom lip and nodded.
“Shoot. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tate. I’ve been super judgy.” I went on to admit to her that I hated being that way and that I’d continue to work on stopping that awful habit. It was about as a real a moment as we’d ever had.
At home, hot gluing his acorn hat back on so he could be in one piece on my dashboard (where we decided his post must be), Tate and I came up with a clever name for him. Which has turned into a code word between she and me, a deliberate reminder to not judge.
Years later, that little dude still sits there, at his post. He stares at me all day, in his adorable messy silent way, as I drive busily around town. And when I’m being judgemental of Tate or anybody, she simply says his name and points.
We don’t only refer to him in the car, either. His name can be whispered anywhere, anytime, and I know what she’s pointing out.
He’s a meaningful reminder of how judgement hurts - that little, simple snowman, a tiny pillar of kindness.
