Life is made up of a series of seemingly meaningless, pointless moments, punctuated by a few special, meaningful ones. But even the "meaningless" moments have value: they are opportunities for improvement and self-reflection.
Today, when Bird grabbed at the computer for the umpteenth time, I snapped. I roughly grabbed her arm, put on my angry eyes, and said no in my mean voice. Her face promptly crumpled and she melted into me, crying, "I want mama milk." My heart broke. I am awake now chewing that moment of failure over, near tears yet again. Failure.
Was I doing something important on the computer? No. Is there anything I could possibly have been doing on the computer that would be worth treating my daughter so terribly? With so little of the love and respect I feel for her? Never.
Moments of failure, like this one, cause me to take a step back. When I have a moment of quiet to myself in the evening, I mull them over, looking at where I went wrong. Where I failed. Where I will do better, be better, next time.
Next time, I will remember that I am her world and she wants my love to shine on her. She wants to be just like me; if I'm pounding on a keyboard, then she wants to be pounding on a keyboard, too. Next time I will remember that playing with her is a million times more valuable to both of us than anything else. Next time I am frustrated, I will take a deep breath, remember that I am the adult and she is the child. Next time I will treat her with the love and respect she is due. She is my child and she is precious.
Our failures do not define us, rather it is how we react and respond to them. How we grow from them. How we avoid them in the future. I am obviously doing something right because my Bird does not cower in fear when I am angry, she reaches out to me. She connects with me. She is already better equipped to care for herself emotionally than many adults.
I apologized to her. I gave her mama milk. We played and cooked dinner.
Someone I respect and admire called me a good mom this morning*. And that makes me want to be a good mom. A great mom. I have years to work on it, and I will work on it every day. Tomorrow, no touches that aren't soft and loving, no words that are harsh, and no angry eyes. Tomorrow I will be a good mom. And the day after that. And so on.
Life may be an endless succession of seemingly meaningless, pointless moments punctuated by a few special, meaningful ones. But just because a moment doesn't stand out to me, doesn't mean it isn't a special one to her.
*Today while I was in the shower, Bird colored all over our iMac with her crayons. When I saw it, I didn't panic. I said to her, "Crayons are for paper," in the same tone I would have said, "It's snowing." And, thanks to the magic of Crayola washable crayons, I wiped it all away with a damp cloth. So maybe I am a good mom after all. I was in that moment, anyway.
