Scary Eyes
I’m in the bathroom, listing, again, all the things Tate has left to do before bed. Driving myself mad with the nagging. There’s something about the race to bed that sucks the sweetness out of the night for us. I’ve got to figure this out, I tell myself, for the millionth time.
Tate falls onto the ground to pick at her toenails.
“Tate, I need you to get up this minute and brush your teeth.”
She looks up at me with those big blue, innocent eyes of hers as if she’s never seen me before. Before I know it, she’s up and racing past me out the door. I follow her, ordering her back into the bathroom. Angry because it’s seven o’clock. At this rate, my quiet time (required for my sanity) tonight will be less, she’ll be exhausted in the morning and we won’t get to snuggle and read together for as long.
Tate runs back to the bathroom, obliging but avoiding me. I get there and firmly tell her again how frustrated I am. She looks up at me and bursts out crying. The record screeches to a halt.
I drop down to my knees.
That cry - oh, that cry. I never mean to make that angel cry.
Calming myself to look her in the eye, “Why are you crying, baby?” Though, deep inside I know. It’s too much. All the firmness and seriousness that accompanies our hurried bedtime routine. The anxiety-provoking race I dread.
She tries to turn away. She doesn't want to answer. She looks far away from herself. Emptied from her spirited play, just moments ago. It frightens me - the switch.
So, I more earnestly ask, “What is it? Please tell me.”
She says, through fear and sadness, wishing she didn’t have to, “You scare me when you get mad.”
That word. That truth.
I’m humbled into resistance and fear, my heart paralyzed. I scare my one and only daughter?
Having grown up terrified of my mother, I transport into utter dread. Failure. Blurred memories of pain and loneliness.
“I scare you?? Come on, you were really scared of me?” I half-smile, questioningly.
Refusing to believe she chose the right word. That I’m in this moment.
Brave, bold and true, Tate holds her own, “Yes.” She nods. “Your eyes look a certain way when you’re mad and it really, really scares me.”
Tears fill my eyes. I have to accept this. I have to breathe and be here and now. Shit.
“Show me how my eyes look. What is scary?” I’m struggling - still half in denial; I’ll make her prove it.
“There’s just a way they look at me when you’re mad, Mama. I don’t know how to show you.”
“But, was this the first time or have I scared you before?” Ignoring that she already implied this has happened before, I ask anyway.
“It’s whenever you’re mad. Your eyes are scary!” Her face reels back in fear, like she's seeing my mad eyes again right there.
Breathe. Holy shit is this hard for me to accept. My mother's frightening glares that filled my childhood swarm my head and I fall back to let my bum rest on my feet, my shoulders cave.
All I can do in this moment is apologize. There is nothing more.
“I’m so sorry, sweet pea. I’m so sorry, I’d never mean to scare you. Even when I’m upset. I never ever want to scare you. I’m so sorry I did (and that I do).” And with those last words, the slow, inevitable tears drop.
“Okay”, she says simply, unaware of the impact her courageous words have made.
I’ve got to look at this, grow, change. Starting now.
Mustering all the tenderness I can through my pain, through the pain I must now admit I cause my baby girl, I let go of time. The past. The future. Let go of the worries around getting to bed on time. Tonight. Tomorrow. And move at her pace, promising myself I will figure this out.
I try not to apologize to her too many times, over and over again the way I want to, until the moon sheds light on this darkness. It feels so dark and yet I remind myself of the power of softness and compassion. Of the truth and presence between us.
That’s all there can be for now. All there needs to be, ever.
