A Lesson in Courage and Apologies
I see her emerging from the woods, stomping in her pale green rain boots. I quickly picture her in her very first pair of Hunter rain boots. Wobbly, often tripping over their size on her tiny feet and unbalanced body. She insisted then though, rain boots were always the shoe of choice. It did not matter if it was 85° or 45°, she was sliding those yellow Hunters on her feet.
Her hair is swaying back and forth as she bounces her way up the path from our woods where she spends a lot of her time playing with the neighbors and collecting treasures from old broken coffee grinders (I’m still amazed by this find), and bugs. I can tell by the look on her face that this is not a happy bounce. Her arms are crossed and on her face sits a pout. Tears are pooling in the corners of her eyes. They haven’t begun falling yet but I can tell she is fighting a losing battle. My girl is on the verge of a breakdown. I want to ask what’s wrong from across the yard but I know, from personal experience, that the moment I ask the tears will come tumbling out.
Does it bother anyone else that no matter how hard you try to keep it together as soon as someone utters any sort of “are you ok?” or “what happened?”, you lose all sense of control and promptly start sobbing, melting into a puddle of your own tears?
I wait until she is closer and before I even have the opportunity to ask, her voice starts to shake, the tears break the barrier, and she howls out “I GUESS NOW WE CAN’T PLAY!” I could speculate about what went wrong in the woods while she was playing with the neighbor kids, but they are 4,6, and 7 years old and I’m sure they all played a critical part in the collapse of their make believe game of school. At this moment I recognize that what exactly happened matters little. What matters most, is what my girl will do from here. I turn my body towards hers, look her in the eye, and get ready to impart wisdom.
This is where Zoey could start the blame game. “Well she did..” or “But mama, he said…”. I have done it before. I take my hurt and turn it into no fault of my own in a feeble attempt to protect my heart. If I don’t own my role, I can detach and place blame and try to feel some sort of vindication in my anger. However, it is only ever temporary. I am always in control of how I act or react and that truth is next to impossible to run from. No matter how hard I have tried.
What she does next surprises me. My daughter is a girl full of big emotions. Her sadness doesn't flow like a river, but rather crashes like waves of a turbulent ocean. Her joy shoots off like fireworks and reaches far and wide. Her anger erupts like a volcano and most often destroys everything in its path. Raising this girl has been the most sanctifying, humbling, and beautiful thing I have ever done. She pulls up a chair next to mine on the back deck and just sits down and cries. She is sad that they aren’t playing together anymore and I can see her mind working behind the tears on how she can rectify the situation so I hold my tongue for the moment.
After a few minutes she quietly says “Mommy, can you text Mr. C and see if they can come back outside. I want to say sorry to M for yelling at her. Maybe she will want to play again.” I stare at her in amazement. Did my daughter just handle a conflict with her friend, FAR better than I have in the past? (The answer is 100%, absolutely, without a doubt, yes. Yes she did)
I send the text and he sends his kids back outside. Trusting she will do what she said, I don’t follow her into the woods. I cannot say for certain if she did apologize, but I can hear them laughing together.
I was so sure, when she angrily stomped down the path from the woods that I would be sharing some serious parent wisdom. I was planning the speech in my mind before she even made it all the way to me. There are times I am positive, I know what is best, and there are times like that afternoon, I am wrong. Instead of passing down profound motherly wisdom, I learned a beautiful lesson in courage and apologies from my six year old daughter.
