It’s always the mother’s fault.
I heard that from my mother. I heard that when I was a grad student in clinical psychology. Now I am the Mother at fault.
At least with my seven year old, Adele.
I think yesterday was a Blame Mother Day. It was fitting since Adele had to go to her First Reconciliation experience – first confession – at the local Catholic Church. She was chosen to have a bit part in “Examination of Conscience” – a series of readings with other children. Her line was: “For the times we have been dishonest or unfair, together we pray…. Forgive us, Lord.”
Where was the line: “For the times we blame our mothers for everything, when they are just trying their best and willing to take all the hits because they love us”? I really must recommend it for next year’s class of second graders.
I usually get in trouble because, from her perspective, her older sister gets to do anything she wants, is never in trouble, and is off with friends all the time and she’s never included anyway. I get blamed because she’s the youngest, not only in our small family but relative to her cousins as well (she is a month younger than her twin cousins who, if my sister’s pregnancy hadn’t been a high risk pregnancy, just maybe Adele would have entered the world before them. From a kid’s point of view, even one day – or one minute – trumps the age game when vying for family status. Just ask the twins and who is older by a minute). Anyway, that’s not something I can change and there are no plans for younger sibs.
The clincher yesterday was, however, a discussion in the car of which friends were in what sports. In particular, two of her age mates play ice hockey. Adele, being petite, observed that she wasn’t sure she could even move with all that padding and equipment. I concurred and noted that people have different body types, some suited quite well to certain sports – her two friends, for example, are rather big boned, like their older brothers. Body type runs in families.
Then I heard a blood-curdling wail. I swerved the car over to the side of the road, thinking she got a finger caught or bit her tongue or incurred some such injury to be commensurate with her cry.
“What happened, Adele?” I asked as my heart leapt out of my throat.
“YOU SAID I DON'T HAVE BIG BONES!” she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks, and a viscous look to pierce my soul.
All I could think at the moment was what on earth will this precious child be like when she’s a teenager. I might as well go on Prozac now as a preventative measure.
Of course, I told her she misunderstood and explained what I meant, but to no avail. I was highly irritated as well since I could have caused an accident on the road. When we arrived at home she ushered her Dad to a corner – an attempt at creating a powerful alliance, and told him the whole thing. I could hear him comforting her, “That’s not what Mom meant, honey, she was just saying….”
Now I refer to the incident as the “big bone thing.” Forgive me, Lord.
Comments