Story-Telling
Tate’s first three years of life, I chased away any negative feeling she had like the plague. If she yelled, I made it better. If she cried, I made her laugh. If she stomped her feet, I encouraged her to solve the problem instead. As much as I thought I was doing it for her, it was stifling her.
When it came time to poop in the potty, she showed me she knew how. I made it fun for a couple weeks, so, as with most things, she was easily on board. We sang the poop song and celebrated each time.
Then, she decided to stop. Just plain stop. She insisted she wasn’t going to do that anymore, that she needed to poop in a diaper. When we were at home, I let her go get one and put it on but if we were out, she’d hold it. This went on for months. I tried to be okay with it, to gently suggest the toilet was an option. She says, “I know, Mama …” dismissing the idea even before the words are out.
Her poops are getting to be big, hardly fitting in a diaper anymore. Uncomfortable for her and for me, to clean up. Everyone says to ‘make the diapers disappear’ but this feels cruel; plus we still need them at night for sleeping.
I begin asking around, in search of other mothers who’ve dealt with similar issues. I call strangers, referred to me by friends. Talk with women I’ve never met about what my daughter is going through. Finally, I find myself on the phone with a woman named Robin. She listens to me with such groundedness and empathy. Her low, slow voice is a comforting telephone nod. Though I’ve never seen her eyes before, it’s all familiar in the best of ways. Mostly, in it’s quiet. I talk and talk…
“She’s super bright and happy, the most thoughtful child ever. And yet, strong. She’s very strong and clear in her expression of her feelings. She has loads of friends and is always creative and generous with them. She’s really loved her preschool. Waldorf, of course. And we are super close. Her dad doesn’t live with us but comes to tuck her in twice a week and spends Saturdays with her.”
“Uh-hmm.”
“She has experienced a lot of loss as we all used to live together, me and her dad and her big half brothers too. And I think she misses that but we still see the brothers a lot too; I make sure of that; I mean I’m the one who does all the organizing of keeping everyone connected and schedules and stuff but mostly it’s she and I …”
“Yeah …” In this two syllabic tone ending in a lower one yet, of complete acceptance. She waits, patiently, for anything more I may want to add. When I’m done, and take a deep sigh, she calmly and immediately says, “I think I can help you.”
Months later, in Robin’s office, my eyes soaked in by hers, I’m humbled by how she knows me. How little she has to say to squeeze the truth outta my heart.
“What happens when you have a negative feeling?” She asks. Coring my fruit. “What does it look like when you feel sad?”
I’m never sad. So sad. Always sad. Never.
