I was up for two and a half hours during the night with Lauren, who had had a nightmare. I was slow to start in the morning.
I was making coffee when Faven joined me at the counter. “Mom”, she said with a thoughtful expression, “why don’t you lose some weight?” She said it with the same tone and expression she might use if she had said, Mom, why don’t we walk the dog, or, Mom, do you want me to paint your nails?
I knew that the meaning for the words she just uttered was lost on her. I also knew that she was not aware of my interrupted sleep, nor did she know that on this cool and rainy day (the first in weeks) none of my jeans fit. No, she didn’t know - how could she? I ought to have let the question go, or (at the least) adopted a playful spirit of inquiry. But, I didn’t. Would you have? (Oh, you ARE a better woman than I.)
I launched into a tirade that would have gotten the dander up on a stuffed wolf. “Do you have any idea what you are saying? You don’t say something like that to someone! That is so hurtful! Instead you should be proud to have a mom who looks after herself and exercises regularly! How many of your friends’ mothers play soccer!?”
Now she was beginning to realize that she had said something wrong. She stammered, “Mom, I didn’t mean it.”
Don’t you love second chances?
It blew by me. I continued, “What about the cardinal rule – if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!!”
“Okay, okay” she said, and backed away without taking her eyes off me – lest I pitch the coffee machine in her general direction.
Not one to let someone else have the last word, I yelled, “And don’t ever say that to me again.” Okay, I felt a bit foolish after that.
The rest of our morning together was not great. Faven was sullen, and I was self-righteous. We had to head out to an appointment to get Faven’s eyes checked. Faven was completely miserable at her appointment. She was the moody teenager that you see in the movies. She wouldn’t answer any questions, she shrugged and looked away, she was uncooperative with the testing, and she took her glasses off every thirty seconds and then wouldn’t put them back on. The optician (and I) did our best, but it was clear that we were not going to get the best out of Faven that day. I realize now, I should have left the room.
As we were driving out of the parking lot, Faven quietly spoke from the back seat and said, “Mom, I’m sorry.”
Wanting to be clear on what she was sorry for, I asked, “For what?”
“For what I said this morning,” she offered.
“Thank you for your apology,” I said, “I am sorry too, for over-reacting.”
There are a couple of things that I took away from this event. One, she was the better person than I; she acted like the adult. One could wallow in self-loathing over something like this, and I did have my moment of I should haves. But eventually, and after debriefing with a friend, I saw an upside. This was the first time, in our two years together, that Faven had apologized; the first time that she had taken responsibility for her part in an upsetting event; the first time she was able to take the perspective of another. Inside, I celebrated that, not just for the action that she took, but also for the example I have been over our first two years together. I have modeled responsibility taking and apologizing many times, and she was starting to understand (or at least see the value of it in a moment of disharmony).
It was a proud parenting moment. My mistake had turned into something of value, a moment for her practice a new behavior. My feelings of stupidity, over my childish behavior, vanished like water on hot pavement; all that was left was the pavement and a new opportunity to put one foot in front of the other, while holding hands with one whom I love.
