to my daughter
December 9, 2015 § 2 Comments
Yesterday I gathered you from an after school activity, the outside air chasing our hurried movements. I was still settling the chaos of my oversized coat and cumbersome purse, pushing buttons and shaking off the cold, when I caught your tears of frustration.
Rushing into the car you had bumped your head; tired and sore you crumbled under the culmination of a series of unlucky occurences. In a winded run-on description of your day, you hiccupped over how the gym teacher wouldn’t dismiss your from running with a sore throat and how this had led to new aches.
The tiny injustice of running while feeling under the weather reminded you of another unfairness. In a sharing that rambled over intricately connected details with an unlikely logic, you punctuated the day’s events with the report there is a rumor the gym teacher hates children.
A little disoriented by so many details, it took me a moment to realize the heart of your tears was greater than the sum of your discomforts. You said that when you challenged your classmates to consider the possibility your gym teacher might not be mean at all and postured that she may want only to push students to do their best, that the other children told you middle school is too old to keep assuming the best of others; that not everything has a bright side.
Stubbornly Optimistic Girl, I love your bright side and I’m not ready for you to dim your view of the world to conform to someone else’s expectations. Growing up doesn’t mean giving up on goodness, it means cultivating kindness even when it is uncomfortable. I hope you always challenge negative assumptions and create a dialogue that provides for a different opinion. Mostly, I want you to be yourself; no matter your age. Love, Mom
scribblechic 
Wouldn’t go back to middle school for all the tea in China:). I have one there too and it’s a reminder . . .
I think it is almost as painful parenting a pre-teen in the trenches as it was surviving my own middle school experience. You can sit at my table, Kay, I’ll save you a seat.