“I’m so stupid!”
That’s what Zora said last week… tears pouring down her face… berating herself for not liking the hair style she asked me to do. My daughter attacked herself in preparation of the frustration she expected from me.
I couldn’t believe that she would talk about herself that way. Let alone aloud. Let alone in response to an interaction we had. But she did — and I found myself rebuking the people pleaser in her… the fact that she was so apologetic in anticipation of my disappointment.
Internally, I felt ashamed. This hinted at all the previous hair do’s gone wrong… where I did her hair only to learn that she wasn’t interested in keeping the style. She had “wasted my time,” and I chose words that made my feelings clear.
In the present moment and aloud, I shared how the woman who started my locs did them smaller than I wanted. How my tender-headed self cried under the dryer before paying for a style I knew didn’t like long before she ever held a mirror in front of me .
“THAT was stupid! You knowing what you like? That’s not stupid at all.”
What I didn’t have the nerve to say: Even when it’s at my expense. Even if it presents a challenge for my own capacity to self-regulate. Even if it amounts to wasted energy on my end. Even when my energy is already low.
If I’m completely honest (& able to set aside my ego), her knowing what she likes and having the courage to share it with me is something I’m proud of. Especially when we have a difference in opinion.
I also look at the way she handles her baby sister. Her patience and compassion. Her directness when over it and wanting me to take “my baby.” It is truly the most intricate thing. Their dynamic and the gratefulness I feel for witnessing it. I see her, and I wonder - what type of world prompts such a dear heart to call herself dumb. What if it’s me? What if I’m getting it all wrong while trying my hardest to do this right? Nevermind the safe space we have that allows her to voice her dislikes. What if her experience of my attempt at intentionality still feels intense and demanding?
She turns 8 this month, and I swear the last year has presented repeated reminders that she is exactly what we pour into her. Nevermind when it comes out all jumbled up or gets launched at me quicker than I’m able to compute. Here I am - constantly reminding myself to breathe. To let it be a moment. To trust that she will find her way back to me. To rage for her to maintain her softness — even when her rage feels directed at me.
No one accurately explains just how fast time flies when raising these little humans. I can only hope (read: pray) that she will maintain her softness. That she retains an unbridled knowing that she is her own best thing. And mine too. Hell or high water. Agreeable hairstyles or otherwise.