6 going on 2 going on life

My dearest Hattie Belle,

These are difficult times for you and me. I know it’s hard to be six. I wish you knew how hard it is to be 39, with two daughters you love more than you love yourself.

But you: You tell me that you are never getting married, and that you are going to adopt a daughter on your own, so you don’t have to mess with that yucky business of kissing a boy—or marrying a girl, kissing her, and then procuring the necessary boy stuff to make a baby. Whatever you do, I’ll be behind you.

“Will you come and visit me when I adopt my baby? Or my four-year-old?” you asked me yesterday. (You think if you adopt a four-year-old of your choosing, you can pick the “perfect” one, and there will never be a hard day between you.)

I said, “Of course! Are you crazy? I’ll be there as much as you want me to! I’ll babysit!”

You smiled, pleased. You let me see that much.

Know this: I will be there as much as you want me to be there, for your whole life, in any way I can.

This morning, you pitched another colossal fit about getting ready for school. You crumpled in a cranky, defeated heap in your pajamas, just outside the bathroom door. “I CAN’T STAND UP! I CAN’T GET MY LEGS UNDER ME! YOU HAVE TO PICK ME UP!”

My beloved spirited one, I said no. I refused to play along. I told you that I expected you to stand up on your own, to get dressed, to go to the bathroom, to brush your teeth and hair. I told you that, like it or not, being six meant doing all those things. And if you wouldn’t do them, I would put you in the car in your pajamas, without breakfast, and drive you to kindergarten as you were. And that we would then have a word with your teacher.

To say you did not like my response is putting it mildly. You wailed. You shrieked. You screamed. You howled that I didn’t care about you at all, that your life was horrible, simply horrible.

I told you that I loved you very much, but that this behavior of yours was unacceptable. I told you I would not play this game.

You bawled, “I CAN’T STAND UP! I CAN’T STAND UP BECAUSE I AM SO TIRED AND YOU JUST DON’T CARE!” Then, lying in the hallway, you kicked the floor, the bathroom doorframe, the wall—anything your little feet could strike.

I walked away from you.

I went downstairs and made your lunch. I let the dogs out. I let the dogs back in. I put your lunch and your sister’s lunch into your respective backpacks. I fed the dogs. I fed the cat. I made sure your mittens were dry, behind the hot copper pipe, where I had wedged them the night before. I called your sister downstairs. She is eight, a fact that you know and hate. She has other issues, but getting dressed in the morning is not one of them. I brushed your sister’s hair into a ponytail and gave her some cereal. I drank some iced tea. I tried to breathe. Still no sign of you.

I went to the base of the stairs and listened. I heard it: the battery-operated whirr of your butterfly toothbrush. You could have turned it on and simply held it in the air like a fairy wand, wishing all of us away. I hope you actually brushed your teeth with it. But I knew better than to head back upstairs.

You finally came downstairs, dressed. You were cranky but subdued. I had brought a comb downstairs with me. I handed it to you. You pouted and asked me to wet it, to tame your wisps, your flyaways—inherited from me, so I figured that was a fair request. I ran the comb under a faucet and gave it to you. You combed your own hair. I poured you some cereal, and reluctantly, you sat down and you ate it.

We all managed to get into the car and to school on time. You didn’t feel like saying goodbye to me when we got to your classroom. I didn’t much feel like saying a proper goodbye to you, either.

I asked your teacher to come into the hallway for a second. I asked for her advice. She said, “Kids have a funny way of trying to make happen the very exact thing they are most afraid of happening—what they never want to have happen.”

Ah.

You are pushing me hard, pushing me away. Honey, I am not going anywhere. I am not going to lift you to your feet if I know you can stand on your own. I may walk away from your maelstrom, but only as far as the kitchen.

I am not going anywhere without you. Even when I must go somewhere without you, I am not going anywhere without you.

I know that you feel you must be perfect at school—you have told me this, many times—and your teachers tell me that that is all they see of you there: perfect Hannah. I know you must be working very hard to hold it all together for long school days. I am guessing that’s why you fall apart at home. Because no one can be that perfect, all the time.

I wish I could make you understand that it’s okay to spread out your mistakes during a 14-hour-day. It’s okay to spread out your mistakes during a lifetime, in fact. That’s going to be my number-one priority as your mother, I see now: teaching you that it’s okay to make mistakes. I want to teach you to spread out those mistakes. I want you to know that you will always and forever be so much more than the mistakes you make.

But your mistakes will be part of you, too. You couldn’t be human without them. You couldn’t learn without them.

I must find a way to teach you that we—your father and I—will never be far away with our love. We will never take our love away. But we know you can stand up. And you know you can stand up, too. So fall down, but get back up, and brush your teeth. When in doubt in life, get back up and brush your teeth. Floss. Wet your hair and comb it out of your face, so you can see.

These are not easy days. You don’t want to talk about what’s bothering you. You shrug at my questions. You say, “I don’t want to talk about that. That’s too sad.” But I see that you are sad. And I wish so much you would let me in, so I could try to find the words to make it better.

This morning, I could have come back up the stairs, lifted you under your armpits, raised you to your feet. I could have cooed and coaxed and cajoled until you let me brush your teeth for you, like I did when you were very little. I could have overlooked your tantrum, your rudeness, your messy hair.

I chose not to put you back on your feet.

Hear this: Despite the fact that I am human, and you are very precious to me, and I hate confrontation with you more than I can express, I will almost always choose not to put you back on your feet.

Because I know you can put yourself back on those small, sweet feet that I love.

Because my gut is telling me I am doing the right thing, as your mother.

You hate this now. You hate my rules, you hate my expectations. You make this very clear on a regular basis, these days. I am not making your life easier, is how it feels to you now. You feel like a mother should make life easier, all the time, like Snow White did for the Seven Dwarves, and Cinderella did for—well, just about anyone.

I am no fairy-tale, my love. I will never be a fairy-tale. I am your mother, and that makes me as real a thing as ever existed.

And I am exhausted, my darlin’. 

But I believe—I have to believe—that by being firm with you, I am making your future life easier. 

I don’t want you to push me away. I don’t want you to thrash and scream and yell like you did when you were 2, 3. But I want to be here with you. And the only way I can help you see that I am here with you, that I am never going away, is to be here, is to be the boundary that you bump up against. Again and again and again.

We are both going to be very tired for a while, this I can see.

I reiterate: I will walk away from you sometimes, like I did this morning. But I will only go as far as the (metaphorical) kitchen. No matter how hard you push.

I love you. I am worried about you. I don’t have all the answers. I am frustrated. Sometimes, I would like to walk farther away than the kitchen, I admit it.

But I don’t ever take a step without you (and your sister) taking it with me. You are in my heart, every minute of every day.

I am sorry you are hurting, that you are angry, that you are desperately afraid to make mistakes. Someday, I hope I can read this to you, or that you will read it to yourself, and you will know that your mother loved you (and will always love you) powerfully and completely. Hattie Belle, I love you unconditionally. Unconditionally is a big word, and most grownups don’t know what it means, because they’ve never seen it in action. But unconditionally means that I don’t care how many mistakes you make. I just want you to learn from them. I will help you learn from them, but you’ll need to listen sometimes. Really listen.

And: I’ll love you even if learning from your mistakes takes time. Every time. There is no shortage of mistakes in a life, and yours will be no different.

You are beautiful, Little-Almost-Big One. You radiate charm and charisma that have the ability to trip you up, confuse you. Your shining personality and cute-as-a-button appeal are not lost on others, and you are starting to know it.

“Everyone loves me at school,” you said to me last week at bedtime. “I don’t know why, but they do.” Your voice: a mix of pride and wonder, with the slightest brushstroke of smug. You are six; I do not fault you for this. Popularity is confusing at any age.

When you spoke those words to me, I tried to swallow my instant fear that you would become Beautiful and Popular from the outside-in, instead of the inside-out. There is no use in being Beautiful or Popular on the outside if your insides are empty and dark. It’s a surefire recipe for disaster, turning you into Little Red Riding Hood, led astray by the Big Bad Wolves of the world.

I have seen you at school, in action. You are always surrounded by adoring friends and admirers. Funny that this worries me, that this is the kind of thing a mother should be concerned about. When you adopt your baby or your four-year-old someday, maybe you will understand.

I tried to explain to you that night that people are always going to love you in life, because you are deeply, wonderfully lovable. Bright. Funny. Lovely. Generous. You listened, gathered Blankie to your chest and sighed.

As you drifted to sleep, I tried to explain that you—you!—will need to keep your eyes and heart wide open. As your breathing became slower, and your warm hand twitched under mine, I tried to explain that you will always need to be vigilant about giving as much love as you get. And being sure to include others—especially the overlooked ones of the world—in your circle of light.

But you had fallen asleep.

Don’t worry. It was a dry run for me. I know now that this is a topic we will need to revisit again and again. We both have a lot to learn, baby.

Just keep standing up. Don’t pretend you can’t stand. Someday, when you really can’t get your feet underneath you, I’ll know it, and you can bet I will be right there to help you up. 

I love you. I see you. I am yours. But you are yours, too. Always remember that, my love.

Mommy