Mama Writes: One of Those Days

It was one of those rainy Saturdays. Having received some discouraging professional news, I was in a dark mood. My husband was working all day. And the kid and I were both battling stuffy noses.   

Because they're very good people, my parents came down last minute from Connecticut. Together with my sister, we took in the . Ate a good lunch. The kid took a nap. Things were looking up- a 4 to 1 ratio! And then the kid woke up.

There is nothing like a grumpy post-nap slightly-sick two-year-and-a-half-year-old to define the phrase "woke up on the wrong side of bed." Truthfully, one of the reasons I'd asked my parents down, besides the extra hands, was because he will pull all sorts of things with me he'd never try with them. But boy were they in for a surprise.

There was hitting. There was yelling. There was rudeness and backtalk and kicking and meanness. He spent some good time on the stairs thinking about things. We poked food in his mouth. We distracted him with books and blocks. Tickled him. Hugged him. Tried to soften him with our love. These things worked for about three minutes at a stretch. And then it was back to unpleasantness.

I decided we needed a change of scenery–grumpiness is no more contagious than in an apartment living room on a rainy afternoon. "Let's go to the bookstore!" I declared. The kid's face lit up. My parents were thrilled. An outing- just what we needed. We rainbooted ourselves and headed for Fort Greene.

has a lovely back area set up just for kids, with a carpet, a kid-sized cardboard playhouse and an enormous, plush teddy bear, perfect for lounging on. I blew my nose and ignored my sore throat, picking a couple books off the shelf as the kid headed straight for the playhouse. There were two children already inside; their mom sitting beside it. I reminded my kid that it was someone else's turn, which he did a good job of respecting, although he was eager to get in there. Then the mom said, "Let's give this little boy a turn," and the other children reluctantly clambered out. In combination with the mood I was already in and the way I was feeling physically, the dirty look she gave me as her children left the playhouse made me feel as if my kid had leprosy.

One of her children emerged from the house and kicked the door. Just one little, harmless, disappointed, kick and I could see my kid transforming in response, from excited kid to Incredible Hulk. "He kicked it, mama! He kicked it!" my kid tattle-taled in an unpleasant tone, as the mother gathered her children and left us to ourselves. I resisted the urge to prove my worth, instead leaning down and reminded my kid that he is in charge of only his body and no one else's. "But it wasn't nice to kick it!" he declared, and I was caught in that interesting parenting place of wanting to tell the truth while wanting to raise someone who acts with respect. I noticed something wild in his eye and reminded him to be kind before releasing him to the playhouse, where he played peacefully for a few minutes.

A younger girl, maybe fifteen months, toddled up with her mother soon thereafter. She, too, was eager for the playhouse, but my kid was now amped up into high-territorial mode. "No!" he declared, "This is my house!" I stepped in, extracting him. "This is the bookstore's house," I reminded him, "and this little girl is going to take her turn. Let's read a book and be kind to her." He arched against me and wiggled loose, until I wrangled him back into my arms and distracted him with Knuffle Bunny.

Through all of this, the little girl's mother hovered on the fringes. I could feel her watching us with scrutiny, and as she doted on her sweet little baby girl I resisted the own beast inside of me that wanted to growl up at her, "call me in a year, lady, and tell me how sweet she is then," but I kept my mouth shut. Book over, the kid asked me if he could play in the playhouse again, and I said yes- there was room enough in there for both of them. I figured I should give him a second chance.

He bounded to the cardboard door. Tried to push it open. He couldn't see that the little girl was right inside, but I could, and I tried to intercept him before the unthinkable happened, but next thing I knew, the sweet little baby girl had been pushed to the floor by my brutish son. "I can't get in!" my son complained dumbly as he repeatedly pushed against the blocked door and the baby let up a wail from within. Before I could say a word, the other mother remarked archly, "You'd be able to get in if you gave her some space," which I recognized clearly as a criticism intended for my ears alone.

And so I picked my son up, and, fueled by all the bad things I had gathered up over the course of the day, carried his thrashing, wailing body, out of the store, set him down on the wet sidewalk, and unleashed fury upon him.

On the other end of my rant, here's what I had to show for myself:

- one very upset child

- two mothers who thought my child and I were jerks

- three family members who were watching from the sidelines with horrified curiosity

- the disruption of both the lovely patrons and staff of Greenlight Books- for whom I have both a personal fondness and in whom I have a professional interest

- and a terrible feeling about myself as a mother and person.

Not my best moment.

We all have bad days, especially those of us who spend them intertwined in the emotional lives of little Incredible Hulks. Retrospect (and perspective) on my worst days can be helpful, both as a reminder of how well I usually do, and as a ways of averting future familial disasters.

So what could I have done to make the day different? I wish I had started it with fresh eyes, without carrying over my glowering professional mood and physical discomfort into my mothering. I wish I'd fed my kid more, since it was clear that night, over dinner, that he was absolutely starving. But there's something else I wish, that I had no control over on that day, but reminded me about how I want to be a parent in this community- I wish those other moms had helped us. I don't mean by being indulgent to my son, or letting him get away with his unpleasantness; I mean by seeing our children as just that- ours- and recognizing that my kid and I were doing the best we could, but that alone, we weren't doing well. Instead of directing their disappointment in my son's behavior at me with dirty looks and pointed comments, it would have been amazing if those other moms had bent down to my son's level and said something directly to him that he would have listened to: "it's hard to share, but I can see you're trying" or "it's not your turn right now but it will be soon," or even "hi, what's your name?" I would have been so grateful for a smile from one of them, an acknowledgement that I was there too, and that in vain, I was trying. In short, we both could have used a little kindness.

I'm not trying to farm out blame for how our day went horribly wrong- I take full responsibility for that. But I do believe that the only way we're going to raise conscientious kids is by helping each other, and them, adhere to the strictures we live by. Next time another kid pushes mine down at the playground, instead of judging his mom, I'll try to turn to her with kindness in my own heart. After all, how can I claim to teach my son something so vital to the human condition if I don't follow it myself? If that mom looks like she needs it, I'm going to smile at her. And then I'm going to help.