Dear Abby,
You are not actually crying in that picture. Did you know that babies do all sorts of practice faces while they sleep? Practice smiles, practice grimaces, and practice cries.
And wow, did your practice pay off! In fact, in light of all the parenting research I’ve been reading lately, I should be praising your growth mindset, which was clearly in place at 19 hours old. Great effort! Great work! You can cry and throw tantrums with the best of them.
I think about this photograph a lot. Your proud and happy mom and dad. A clueless first-time mama thinking babies are all about smiling and rocking in the glider and napping. And while she smiles, you are practicing for your upcoming weeks of colic.
In fact, maybe the reason I think about this photograph so often is that is how I remember those first few months. Crying. 35-minute nap. Crying. Rocking and bouncing and shushing and swinging and swaddling and… I know there were two more S’s! I remember the months where “dinnertime” consisted of your father and I taking turns ~ one of us would eat while the other held you while you screamed.
So while many of your baby pictures look like this…
… or this…
…the crying is what I remember. Your intensity.
I know now that you are highly sensitive.
You react to small changes in stimuli. You become paralyzed by choices. You are overwhelmed and overstimulated in loud, busy environments. You need your quiet time in order to function.
Now that you are almost seven, there is still a lot of crying. Tantrums. Yelling. “I hate you!”s and “You are the meanest mommy EVER!”s.
You are not quiet {in fact, you are quite loud}, but you are an introvert.
In fact, you are kind of like your mother. I often think so many of our battles stem from how alike we are. We are both intense, and demanding, and stubborn.
I know I hurled my share of nasty insults at your grandmother, and I now know just how painful those words were.
I can react in anger, too.
I crave solitude at the end of the day. I so get you when you tell me, after our usual after-school argument session, “I need my QUIET TIME!!!”
You could say we are intense and overly sensitive.
Or you could say we are passionate.
And you definitely look passionate in that photo. Was this your wise, not-even-a-day-old way of teaching your mother that she can find peace and serenity even in the most terrible meltdown moment?
When I heard Sheryl Sandberg speak this summer, she encouraged us to describe our daughters not as “bossy,” but as “possessing executive leadership skills.”
So maybe it’s time I saw your intensity as passion, your frustration as high expectations. Maybe it’s time I truly saw myself in you.
We both get frustrated easily. I see you get upset over a spelling mistake, and throw down your pencil. Though I will work with you to calm your emotional reactions, I appreciate your love of school, your high expectations of yourself, and your desire to do well.
I see you get frustrated with me when I can’t respond fast enough to your questions, or solve your immediate problem, or make the meal you wanted. We both have high standards and expectations for others. I hope we can learn to find “good enough” together, and not let perfection become the enemy of our happiness, for there is so much we can’t control.
I will remember that your outbursts at me, though hurtful, often stem from two things: ignorance and comfort. We begin our lives ignorant of our connections to others and the ways in which our words and actions can wound. I will continue to teach you about connectedness and compassion and empathy. And that hurtful words are unacceptable.
And I will remember that another part of why you lash out is your sense of comfort and security. You know your mother loves you, unconditionally, and with all her heart. You know she will always love you. Even on your terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days. Because those are the days we need love the most.
Fortunately, it’s not just stubbornness and intensity that you inherited from me.
I love your love of jewelry and bling and cool clothes. I would wear a tiara every day if I could, too. As long as you can accept yourself as beautiful just as you are, and see these things as ways to feel good about yourself and not to please others, then wear that tiara with pride!
I love your sense of organization. I love that just today, you created a “soccer plan” with chalk, outlining a game strategy, and the skills you need to improve.
I love that you create written to-do lists for your mornings.
Maybe someday we’ll help each other learn to be more spontaneous and unstructured.
I love that you want to be a teacher. I love that you enjoy playing school. I love that you love books and reading. Because I love teaching and books and reading.
I love that you are a dancer like your mom. I love watching you dance and get new costumes and learn choreography. And I will try to remember that your activities are for YOU, and not be hurt if you decide to no longer dance.
I will remember that you are so much like me, but I must let you be YOU.
I love that when you do say things that are hurtful, you apologize. You write me notes like this…
Or this…
The feeling is mutual, my dear.
I think that photograph, taken almost seven years ago now, has taught me a valuable lesson: Even when we’re screaming, we can find a smile. {Or Daddy. Or a Diet Coke.} But we will find the good. You and me, together.
Happy Seventh Birthday!
I love you.
Love,
Mom
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