Just Like Mama.

“Imagine that we both like milk chocolate.”

“But Mama, you don’t like milk chocolate.”

“Right! And that works out well for us. I give you the milk chocolate and you give me the dark chocolate. But imagine if we both really liked milk chocolate. We might struggle to share because we’re so similar.”

This was how J and I discussed the connection between our similarities and our struggles. By all accounts J is a mini-me. I don’t mean to diminish J’s independent personhood, but only to point out that her personhood’s behavior is [almost] shockingly familiar. Her feverish need to stay in integrity (even if it means getting in trouble), her constant ache to know exactly what’s happening, the joy she gets from detailed planning of a special outing… I get all of it. But getting it doesn’t mean liking it. All of these tendencies come from a deep desire for predictability, and that desire is constantly nipping at my heels. It’s a delicate balance to assuage the desire for structure while retaining much needed flexibility. Most days I feel like I’m barely keeping the predictability beast at bay. It beckons to constant tidying, researching, and micro-managing. Adding in J’s predictability beast has proved challenging. Like when there’s a snow day and I’m trying to work out the cascading dominos of adjustments while J is asking a million questions. Or when M and I are resolving even the slightest disagreement and J keeps interjecting with what “should” happen. J gets on my nerves because I get on my nerves.

So at this juncture, J is more of a Daddy’s Girl. And P (who has more of M’s personality) is glued to my side. But then the hard stuff comes. 

Like when J needed vaccines, and I knew exactly how to set her up for success. Or when she’s hit with profound loneliness, a sinking suspicion that she is not lovable… a hollow longing that comes out of nowhere. M is dumbfounded, but I remember that deep well of emotion. Nowadays I’m rarely overcome in that way, but I still remember long tearful conversations with the spirit of my grandfather. I remember staring at his old camel wheelchair and believing wholeheartedly that only someone otherworldly could understand and heal my brokenness. Maybe it was my young brain processing complex emotions, grappling with surges of neurotransmitters, creating new neural pathways… who knows. But the ache was part of my childhood too, so when J tells me about her painful conversations with Mother Earth, I get it. I can empathize in a way that acknowledges the heft of her emotions, and in so doing I can help J feel less alone.

So go on little one - bring your wild laughter and rambunctiousness to Daddy. Let him be the one to show you patience when I’m already on my last nerve.

But bring me your tender heart. Let me be the one to hold you through your growing pains.

Mama and Me craft desks.