scribblechic

Some days I want to unravel a thought, something that has snagged my attention. Other days I am acknowledging a piece of my life, holding it closely tucked inside a written moment that I can return to another time. This morning I am celebrating a day with unceremonious sharing; both children having gifted me a moment of insight into their days. While my children sleep, I am absorbing the blessing of yesterday’s conversations.

Coloring beside my daughter, not a thought beyond the images on our blank page, my little girl said: Sometimes my head hurts from the secrets I cannot say out loud. This thought comes after school days that have ended with reserved and wounded behavior. I’m fine. It was a rough day. Little clues without context until we were nestled side by side on the floor,  heads bent over a shared task. Grateful for an invitation to ask questions I let my daughter lead with gentle nudging and reminders that her secrets are my own. The laundry sat in a lumpy pile on the couch, dirty dishes nestled in the sink; beside my daughter with no hurried gesture to multitask I learned everything I needed to know about the shift in her mood this past week. I gave her tools for her troubles, but mostly I was present giving her space to talk.

Later in the day my son carved out space and time for himself. Having been reprimanded for an error in judgement, an act more in line with poor manners, my frustration was disproportionate to the moment. Some days it is difficult to ignore the contradiction of my son’s mannerisms. My love is unconditional, but occasionally my understanding is limited by what I cannot know. My son’s needs sometimes create unexpected pockets of inappropriate behavior for his age. Having walked away from our moment lost to so many doubts, my son found me and sitting down across from me said: I don’t want to drag this out or overanalyze this. I just want you to know that I don’t always know why I do what I do and I don’t understand why other people do what they do. I know I did something wrong and you are upset, but I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It wasn’t an apology, but it was a timely reminder that my son is as aware of his challenges as I am; neither of us have answers, but we both want to be understood. My twelve-year-old did more than apologize, he tethered us both to the truth beneath the frustration.

These moments, connected to my children and undistracted by the busyness of the day are essential to my experiences as a mother. I want to be the person they reach for in confidence; to guide them as they find their way, sometimes with questions and other times with answers, but always from a place of accessibility. May our home always have space to talk.

Tagged: Children, Family, Musings