“Hannah,” I say, “where are we?”
“Here. Home.”
“No pouting. You are six. You are not a baby. You are a young lady, and you will brush your own teeth.”
But the wails, the wails. The princess, shut up in the tower, alone with a dried, stiff toothbrush and horrid toothpaste!
I cannot stand it.
I take the brush, put her across my lap, and brush her teeth until she cries harder. I am not proud of this. But she is six. In this house, we brush our teeth. Six is not three and I will not recognize it as such: a vertical half of itself.
She struggles to the sink, spitting, sobbing.
“Bloom, kid,” I say. “Bloom. You are so close. You are SIX! You are no longer a baby, but on the verge of becoming a girl, a young lady! Do you know why I make you brush your teeth? Do you know?”
She shakes her head furiously.
I get down on my knees, look into her tear-stained face. She is so very, very tired from her cross-country flight the night before, and a full day of school today.
“It is my job to teach you to love yourself,” I tell her. “It is my job as your mother to teach you to love every little inch of your body the way I do, and to treat it with love and respect. And brushing your teeth? THAT, my dear, is part of loving yourself.”
I depart to Sophie’s room, let H have time alone in the bathroom, to moan and think. I curl into Sophie’s bed in the dark, wondering if I have been too hard on H.
Sophie does not think so. “She needs to brush her teeth.”
“She does,” I say.
All of a sudden, we hear an odd sound: footsteps approaching, with another sound layered over top. Brushing. Hannah. She is brushing her teeth over again. By herself. With toothpaste.
Sophie and I sit up with a gasp and watch as the shadow of her little sister brushes its shadow mouth, calmly, without tears.
“Wow!” we say.
“Bravo!” we yell.
“Atta girl!” we holler.
The shadow Hannah smiles, then returns to the bathroom.
“Go to her,” Sophie counsels me.
I leap out of bed and to the bathroom, where I hug Hannah and congratulate her for her excellent decision, her super choice.
“Way to go, kid,” I say. “THAT is the Hannah I know. THAT is the young lady that is in you! How do you feel?”
“Good,” she says, with no further comment but a pleased, if secretive, smile.
I tuck her into her bed and curl behind her, thinking of a sign my friend bought for her daughter. “I love you to infinity and back,” I say. “Do you know what infinity is?”
“Yes!” she says, animated now. “It’s like when it goes on and on and even the highest number you can go isn’t the highest!”
“Exactly. I love you that much, all the time. I knew you could make the right choice. I know I’m strict sometimes, I know I’m hard on you, but I just want you to know that you’re ready to shine, darlin’. You’re ready to be the lovely young lady you’re meant to be. You just have to take responsibility for her and let her out. You already know how to make those good choices. I’m very, very proud of you.”
“And even when we’re mad at each other we always love each other.”
“Totally true. And there will be plenty of times when you will be really REALLY mad at me. And I’ll be super mad at you. But, yup, the love will ALWAYS be there.:
Snuggled deep in her blankets, she smiled. “Yeaaaaah.”
I tiptoed back into Sophie’s bed.
“Tell me a story,” she requests.
“There are too many for tonight.”
“You’ve already told me about sex and bad guys and where to kick a boy if he’s, you know—”
She starts cracking up.
“What were you THINKING?” she asks me. “‘AIM FOR THE BUMP.’”
I put my hand over my eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know sometimes. You don’t get a guidebook that says, oh, 8 years old, tell your daughter this or that. I try to follow my gut. Sorry. Do you hate it?”
“Are you KIDDING? I wouldn’t trade you for any other mommy in the world. I can’t believe sometimes I was born to somebody so AWESOME.”
“I’m not so awesome. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
“So? Everybody makes mistakes.”
“Yeah, but I made mistakes that hurt people, hurt myself. Stuff I wish I could take back.”
“But you learned stuff.”
“Well. Thank you. That means a lot. Really. Coming from you, kid. Thank you.”
“Tell me one more story.”
“A boy stole my bike.”
“And?”
“And I punched him.”
“YOU PUNCHED HIM????” This is squealed with delight. “In the FACE?”
“No, he was a swimmer. I punched him in his shoulder, as hard as I could, because I was hoping it might mess up his performance in the next day’s swim meet.”
“Did it?”
“I like to think so.”
“Did you get the bike back?”
“Yep, but we’re still not friends on Facebook. Two grown adults with kids, and we can’t get past the stupid college bike episode.”
Sophie explodes with laughter. “OH! OH! OHHH! OHHHHH! YOU TELL ME ABOUT SEX AND HOW TO KICK THE BUMP ON BAD MEN AND PUNCHING SWIMMERS AND OHHHHHHHH!”
“I know, Soph. I’m sorry. I suppose I feel compelled to tell you as much about life as possible at an early age, so you can make your own decisions well if life throws you any curveballs early. I may be a total freak mom.”
“You are an AWESOME mom. I love you so much.”
“Kid, I think I might write this one down. To remember.”
******
P.S. New post up at Work It, Mom! Single Mom at Work: http://bit.ly/5fah97
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