That was the cry of the girl this morning. I knew from the first groan and scream that came from her polka dotted nest that this was not going to be a stellar morning. I braced myself.
I went downstairs hoping if she didn't have any targets to aim her nastiness that she would give up and get on with it.
Wrong.
As she lay in hysterics on the floor of the stairs, I knew this one was going to take extra effort.
The girl is 8. Too old for a tantrum for sure. But face it ladies, don't you have those mornings when you absolutely want to throw yourself down on the landing in a pile of nightgown and bedhead and just kick your feet and scream your fool head off? Yea, me too.
I went up stairs and tried logic. You're smiling now because you know that logic mixed with screaming tantrum is like spitting in the wind. So there I stood covered in her spit standing in her closet. I stood very still and I prayed.
I took her back downstairs to the secret hiding place of all favorite jeans called the laundry room. Still sniffling and catching her breath she went upstairs to dress.
She came down in her cute jeans and peace sign t-shirt. I thought I was home free on the shoe situation because I'm Mom of the Year and bought her new gym shoes this weekend. Proudly displayed in the box on her breakfast seat like the Crown Jewels on the Queen's throne, sat the shoes. I smile at my brilliant timing.
Before I can say Honey Nut Cheerios, she's on the floor screaming at these new shoes and their "STUPID LONG SHOE STRINGS" with tears streaming from her red and swollen eyes. In that moment I am one with the girl. I 'get' her.
I scoot 130 lbs of Newfoundland out of my way and I sit on the floor beside her without saying a word. I scoop up 4 feet of arms and legs into my lap and I stroke her hair and I rock. She fights me a teeny tiny bit at first, then she sighs a big sigh and she says, "Mom, can I just stay home for a little while?"
The big yellow bus of social hour is due in 15 minutes. The bus is her favorite part of the day. I'm sure she sits in the back with a pack full of sparkly markers and holds court over her land each day. She is the Queen and her castle is long and yellow and has wheels.
"I can take you to school but you won't get to ride the bus. You can hang out for another hour and still be to school on time if I take you." Normally, this would not even be an option. Today, she sniffs one more sniff and meekly says, "ok".
For the girl, today is the day that up is down and down is up and nothing makes sense and you just want to lay on the couch with a fuzzy blanket let that be alright. We are girls, we are women, and some days nothing makes sense and that needs to be ok. Logic doesn't matter. Logic is the enemy. Logic at that moment is a big fat dummy-head.
I write this for you fathers, husbands, brothers and boyfriends. You lovers of logic and reason and sense. Of math that always adds up and problems meant to be solved.
Yea, we don't always work that way. We're not wrong, just different.
We're so busy feeling and connecting and knowing and glowing and anticipating that sometimes the wires are so tangled we can no longer connect. Please don't tell us how we got tangled or why being tangled is wrong or how to keep us from getting tangled again. That very act of logic knots us up tighter and frays our ends.
Just scoot the Newf and stroke our hair and let us cry our tears. Our cords will relax and untangle themselves and in a matter of hours we'll dismiss this event and you'll wonder if it ever happened.
Not Wrong, Just Different
Then you can go back to the land of logic and we'll go back to connecting and feeling and life will be good again.
Not Wrong, Just Different.
An hour of Cheerios and fuzzy blankets and we're off to school singing our favorite country song. Knowing, feeling, connecting and glowing. Just hanging out, us girls.
