Let Her and Listen
"That’s not faiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir,” she screams like a wild animal, caught, when I announce it’s time for bed.
We just finished dinner and it was past bedtime actually but we’d had game-night so I let it go a little longer. I was trying to move more slowly tonight after yet another week of school at home, where I’d been pushing her to do her best all day long, every day. ‘Slow Down’ was the Tarot card I’d chosen this morning.
As I stand up, Tate screams on top of her lungs, “Noooooooooooo!!” Grabbing at my legs, at the new whitish-pink bottle of nail polish I’d just been using while trying to occupy myself, waiting for her to finish her meal. She always eats slowly but when she’s exhausted, it’s almost unbearable, sort of like watching a starving pot boil, so tonight I’d allowed myself an activity at the table to try not to micromanage her eating.
“Please let go, I have dishes in my hands, Tate,” I calmly say. My mind doesn’t freak out the way it used to when she’d explode, after a lovely evening. I used to accuse her of ruining a perfectly good night. Ask her why she’d want to do that. Judge her.
Now, I follow my calm voice to find my breath. Thinking about how much we’ve been doing and how engaged in her learning she’s been. What a motivated, positive and patient kiddo she’s been through this all. Two months of lockdown. So many kids overwhelmed with anxiety, others not doing any work. She’s been ON, happy.
It’s got to come out somewhere, sometime. Honor it, I remind myself. You’ve wondered if it’s weird how UNworried she’s been. Let her have all these hard feelings. It’s so important she does.
“It’s NOT fairrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!! I want to paint my nails! You got to and I didn’t and that’s NOT fair. It’s not fair!!!!! It’s not fairrrrrrrrr, at all!!” Over and over again, she wails and repeats this cry. From the other room, I hear Tate thrashing about the floor.
She comes into the kitchen, but I continue to walk back and forth clearing the table, so she’s not satisfied. She screams into the pouf in the family room, as we’ve done together several times during this quarantine. I’m proud of her for remembering how much that can help.
As an only child, it’s been especially hard for Tate. Just her and me - nonstop. No real peer interaction at all. Eight-year-old interactions are naturally spontaneous so even having lunch with one of her closest friends every day on FaceTime has quickly become less fulfilling.
The complete and sudden disconnect, for a very social eight-year-old, has been heartbreaking to witness. She’s been such a great sport, looking with me for the silver lining of it all. But, shoot - she’s entitled a good cry. To yell. To all her messy and hard feelings.
I see her punching the couch pillows, screaming and sobbing. I feel such a sharp pang in my whole torso; it hurts as if I’m her. I remind myself that I’m not. That she’s okay, really she is. That she’s GOT to have these feelings to know that.
I wash the dishes, breathing intently and reminding myself that I’m not her. How I’m all right. How right now, all I need to do is let her. Let her and listen. Be here. Be near. She’s screaming for me to please answer her, to explain WHY she can’t paint her nails tonight before bed?!
“Why not? Why can’t I? It’s not fair!! Whyyyyyyyyy? Whyyyyyyy, whyyyyyyy!? Whyyyyyyyyy!!!!!”
I hear the real questions. The real cries. It’s not fair. And, I can’t explain. I wish I could.
When the dishes are done, I gently walk back into the family room and sit down on the pouf, giving her space, but being near. Not staring at her, just looking here and there, keeping my face in that neutral way that she’s okay with. Tate peeks out between screams to check my face. Make sure I’m complying, not looking too sad or full of empathy (she hates that). I seem to be doing okay.
She’s not only screaming but also crying. Crying so hard. I ask, “Is this an okay place to sit?”
She confirms, “Yes.”
Soon, she’s curled up in a ball, hiding between the cushions in the corner of the couch. She peeks at me, hunkers down lower and sobs.
Inside, I, too, am dissolving. For right now though, on the outside, I’m just focused on being there. Mouth straight. Sad eyes.
She asks, “Come closer, Mama …”
I do so slowly, setting myself on the edge of the couch near the corner where she’s hiding and ask, “Is this okay, right here?”
“Yeeeeeeessssssss …”
In two more minutes, she asks, “Can you come closer? I want your thigh to touch me…”
I skooch a bit closer. “Like that?” I realize it needs to be at her pace, that she’s in tune with herself and what feels right and all I need to do to support her is to be here, listening to what that is. Doing what I can to abide.
Tate crawls out from her corner and lays perpendicular to me and asks me to put my leg on top of her. Then, my other one. I warn her they’re heavy and giggle a little, to which she resounds with a splotched red face small giggle too.
My legs are across her body. I breathe. Each time my mind thinks about what time it is and how late she’ll be actually getting to sleep tonight, I bring myself back, away from that thought. It does NOT matter. The time worry keeps moving in. Likewise, I keep pushing it out. Meditation.
Now, she’s asking if I’ll hoist my whole bum up on top of her and I’m laughing that I’ll squish her. But, she wants it. (I’m her weighted blanket, I realize).
I’m quiet. Until, she finds her way into my arms. Ten minutes go by of me just holding her. I finally speak, “I know it’s not fair. I’m sorry, baby. This is so hard.”
I think of the Times article from that very morning how badly kids are missing kids and how hard it is on them. I try this, “You must really be lonely. It must be so hard not to have your friends around you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart…”
“It is, Mama,” she cries more. Then, “I love the kitty so much and I have my stuffies too but they can’t talk back to me.” More tears flow…
I tuck that little Tate in my bed with me, even though it’s been the majority of nights and it’s not ideal. I wrap myself around her, tucking her under my heavy wing.
She falls asleep murmuring, “I love you so so so so much, Mommy.”
Worn out. To the bone. My baby girl.
