Don't Shame Over Broken Eggs

Tough night Sunday. We had new friends over, who have a kid the same age. Chance meeting in the toy store. They were there to preview Maggie’s upcoming birthday. We were there to replace the puzzle Forest peed on while he was operating commando.

(Having a kid and having a dog have so many things in common, not the least of which are urine and wildness.)

And lo, it happened to be Father’s Day, and I said “Come over for dinner!” They brought fried chicken, I made corn-on-the-cob and taboulleh. I had just enough time to clean up the disaster that was our kitchen, boil corn and mix some quinoa, cucumber, mint, parsely, lemon, olive oil goodness before they arrived. (The house didn’t have to be perfectly clean because this is the second time they’ve come over. I am a believer in house first impressions. First time people come over, I like things to look pretty good. Fresh clean on the bathroom, flowers in vases, etc. That way I figure they know I’m capable of keeping a clean house. Sometimes I just choose not to.)

I like these two, like the way they parent, want them to like us and the way we parent. This is a strange place to be; it’s a mixture of Jr. High vulnerabilty and the stuff my parents gave me – good and bad --  and the common sense and goofiness of the parents that we are becoming.

When you have new friends and their kid over for dinner, you get all that, plus the fun of managing your toddlers’ dinner plates together.

Here’s the tough part: the Fox has entered a pushing phase. It had just started a couple days before and on this particular night, I was not on my guard yet. I was having fun. My fun, not his fun. I know, I’m allowed this. But, the Fox was cranky and also a little over-tired and underfed and refusing to eat. So when he pushed Maggie, a big ole two-handed chest thump, I told him it wasn’t okay and chalked it up to stuff.

He also hoarded toys, threw his corn on the cob across the room and went out the dog door for the very first time. These were signs. Not his usual self. I was not paying attention.

Then, I was in the kitchen and I heard “Forest, stop that!” from the living room I rushed in. Maggie’s crying. Her mom looked up at me, big eyes blue. “He pushed her right next to the piano. I thought she was going to crack her head.” She said. I could hear the fear in her voice as I was saying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” caught Forest, said “Forest, pushing is not okay. It’s not okay! Look! Maggie is sad. She’s crying because you pushed her. Can you say sorry?”

He said it.

But then I went on. I got mixed up inside. And I said, “Look, Forest! You made Maggie cry.” Did I actually say the words “Bad Boy!” No. I didn’t. But it was in my voice. It was.

For the record, I am for firm boundaries, but I am really against shaming, which is what happened there.

It’s funny where the buttons are. I am not ashamed of him getting dirty or being loud. But pushing is one of the places where I feel that snake rise within me. Where I forget that it’s just a behavior that he needs help with and I start thinking (“thinking” is an overstatement, by the way) that it’s about me.

The rest of the evening looked a little bit like a jr. high school dance… only instead of all the boys on one wall and all the girls on the other, it was Daddies and the Fox in the kitchen, Mommies and Maggie in the living room. The new friends were pretty beautiful about the whole thing. She shared some of her scary stuff. He called later to say "Don't get discouraged." But that night I felt sick inside, the snake having its way with me.

It's funny that this happened on Father’s Day. You see, we recently brought back an old favorite story – if you can have an “old favorite” at two years. The book is “Mama, Do You Love Me?” by Barbara M Joose. And actually, it was a favorite page of a story. It’s the one where the little girl is first testing: Will you love me anyway? She says

“Mama, what if I carried our eggs

– our ptarmigan eggs! –

and I tried to be careful,

and I tried to walk slowly,

but I fell

and the eggs broke?”

And the mama says:

            “Then I would be sorry.

            But still,

            I would love you.”

Forest has asked me to read that page to him over and over for the last week.

How does he know this shit is coming?

Listen: there are the parts of our own parents’ teachings that we want to take with us and the parts we want to reinvent for ourselves, and the parts we want to burn with a butane torch. Everyone I know has a different ratio of these three, but everyone has at least a little of each… including my own mom and dad, I think. And that book reminded me of one of my dad’s teachings, one of the ones that I am trying to take:

My dad said out loud, frequently, “I may not always love the things you do, but I’ll always love you.”

And he always said it – crouched down, looking into my eyes, with his hands resting gently on my shoulders – at the most important time: Right after I’d messed up.

And then he hugged me.

I forgot that lesson. Not that I love the Fox, but how to separate those things. I forgot it just for a second. It’s not the end of the world and it won’t be the last time. The signs say that we are headed into some rough waters for the next weeks, months… Shoot. It will never stop being sweet and rough. But I have a good teacher. I can do better.

Sorry, Fox. Sorry, Sweetheart.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thank you for the good lessons you gave me.

I’ll give Barbara M. Joose the last word on this one. After her little girl tests her by throwing water on the lamp, putting lemmings in her mukluks and turning into “the meanest bear you ever saw,” her mama replies by saying:

“I will love you,

forever and for always,

because you are

my Dear One.” 

Thanks to flickr user kmevans for the photo "Broken Dreams 5.31.07"