Anyone who knows me knows I'm not a yeller.
Well, I am by nature but I fight like hell every day to keep that part of me at bay. And it works. Despite it being one of my very greatest challenges, I haven't yelled in well over a year.
Until today.
I was stressed over grown-up things, stuff that obviously had nothing to do with her.
But it didn't protect her from that stress. The stress and frustration that blew up and became a very loud, "Put your shoes on!"
You're probably chuckling, eh? It's such a silly thing to yell about. And probably lots of people have yelled much worse.
I could try and justify it. I'd asked her to put her shoes on 15 times all ready. We were starting to run late. I had lots of errands to do after I dropped her off at school and was on a time crunch.
But what would have really happened? If she had not put her shoes on right that second, what would have happened? She'd have put them on 60 seconds later when she finished her picture? She'd have grabbed them on her way out the door and put them on in the car? I'd have grabbed them on my way out the door and put them on her in the car? We'd have been five minutes late for school?
None of those situations seem dire or life-threatening. None of them deem a 4.5 year old little girl getting yelled at to put her shoes on.
But I did it anyway.
"I'm so sorry," she gushed as she flew to put her shoes on. Her face was filled with remorse and shame and that alone broke my heart. She should never be sorry for my actions or words. That's on me. She should never be ashamed for not being an obedient little robot who jump when commanded.
I was still too frustrated at that moment to even try to make it right. Truthfully, I was too busy justifying that I was right to yell - everyone does it sometimes - to even admit I was wrong in that moment.
It wasn't until hours later after I'd picked her up from school that I knelt in front of her in the kitchen and said, "I'm so sorry I yelled at you this morning."
Those grave, brown saucers of hers looked at me as she held my big ol' hand in her tiny one, and clasped her other hand over top, and said, "It's not okay."
I nodded, slowly.
She was right. It wasn't okay. Sorry didn't make it better or erase that event.
For some kids, maybe this would have been a trivial event in their lives. I grew up in a very loud house, I probably wouldn't have dwelled too much on this, and god knows I would never have told anyone that apologized to me that it wasn't okay. I'm so thankful that H is such a better, stronger person than I have ever been.
"You're right," I told her. "It's not okay. I can't change it or fix it. I can just promise that I am going to try so much harder to never do that again."
She nodded solemnly at me.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You made me a mom. Your mom. And it's my job to do better. Always."
"Always," she whispered and flung her arms around my neck.
I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Not then.
She's only 4.5. And I've no doubt messed up in so many ways. But she knows what is acceptable. She demands to be treated correctly. And I love that. I love knowing that she will never settle for okay, and I like to think I had something to do with that.
Today I yelled, and my daughter told me it wasn't okay. She reminded me of why it's so important that I behave and react as the type of person I want her and B to grow up to be, the type of person I want them to surround themselves with as they get older - it's important that they know that people are human, they make mistakes, but it doesn't make those mistakes okay or admissible.
It's not okay.
And I won't ever try to justify it otherwise.
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