All the Ways She Breaks My Heart

It was his birthday. B new that. But four minutes before we left, to meet friends at Japanese Hibachi to celebrate his 4th, she freaked out: she would only wear this one, this exact (stained) sweatshirt to the restaurant. I said no. Her dad said no. It proceeded from there like this:

Us: You can't.
Her: I will.

And multiply by 20. By her tenth complaint, I almost backed down; I didn't because we were GOING OUT for HIS birthday with friends and also because, of the few standards I set, one is that you look and act respectfully for another human being. I didn't mind the jeans and the t-shirt top, but a dirty sweatshirt? No. Not now. Not today. Words were exchanged; they were shouted in fact, and I am still swimming in the wake of it.

Her upset was gigantic, hysterical, so much so that my two other kids were in tears in the car heading out: "I don't want you to take her toys away, mama," they said, because we promised it. She? She was a gloomy pile of unrelenting regret, until I said, "Hug your sister: she is crying for you," and suddenly the beast in her relented: my little girl showed up. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, and she was.

Later, after a good dinner (where even she ate a lot) and ice cream and an awesome Rescue Vehicle courtesy of his neighbor/Uncle and a DOLLAR BILL even, K was too filled with happiness and it was time to go. I tucked him in, kissed his babyhood goodbye, scrambled to get R before she antsy-pants'd her way out of bed, and then went to B:

Goodnight, I said; this hasn't been our best day.

Her hands went straight to her face, covering up her quivering lip: she was crying. Hard.

I know it wasn't just the sweatshirt; tell me, I said.

She explained in kid-verse how her puffy winter coat has been deemed uncool by some kids. UNCOOL: "it' like 53 degrees today," they say, "why are you wearing THAT?"

Suddenly I realized why she asks me about the weather every morning, about the temperature. She's measuring only one thing: how will she be perceived today. And this breaks my heart.

When she tells me the truth about her own heartache, all the words I give to her to say, give to her to hold in her heart, all the lessons I try to teach -- they disappear; and I am just her mom. Just her shoulder. Just the one kissing her eyelashes, because no matter my experience or expertise, it just hurts when she hurts.

As she grows up, I am counting on the fact that most of what I teach and say will become more meaningful with time. I am counting on the fact that what I say matters.

But for now, I'm buying her a new fleece jacket. Sue me.