As the mother of two children under the age of five, there are a lot of times that I find myself saying, “No.” “No, you may not have ice cream for breakfast.” “No, you may not lick the dishwasher.” “No, you may not bring that earthworm/dead mouse/giant tree branch into the house.” “No, you may not run around the neighborhood naked.” “No, you may not have a third popsicle.” “No, you may not go to the grocery store wearing only Perry the Platypus underpants and a plastic crown.” And despite the fact that I know I am saying “no” for their own good, sometimes I feel like I’m always the bad guy, always putting the kibosh on my kids’ fun.
So I decided that every time I start to say “no,” I’m going to stop and think about whether I really, truly need to say it. When the question is, “Can I stick a fork into this electrical outlet?”, the answer obviously needs to be “no.” But when the question is, “Can I have a popsicle for supper?”, or “Can I wear my tutu to church?”, or “Can we go outside and stomp in the puddles while it’s raining?”, sometimes the answer can be “YES!” When the issue is not danger, but rather my own convenience or my own comfort, sometimes the answer needs to be “Yes.”
Last week, my daughter wanted to paint in the kitchen. Being 2-1/2, her painting tends to cover not only the paper, but also the easel, the floor, the sink, her clothes, herself, and me. I knew we needed to go pick up her brother from preschool in an hour, so I initially said, “No.” But then I thought about it, and realized that no-one would care if I brought her to school with paint streaks covering her arms and her face. No-one would care (or even know) if I left the kitchen floor covered in dried paint until I got a chance to scrub it off later in the day. So I took a deep breath and said, “Yes.” I stripped off all her clothes except her diaper, gave her a handful of paint brushes and an entire jar of purple paint, and let her loose. She started off with a few tentative brushstrokes on the paper, but was soon slathering her palms with globs of paint and announcing, “Pawprint!” while slapping her hand onto the paper, flinging bits of paint across the room and all over her face and mine. She dunked her hand into the cup of water, happily watching it slosh over. She noticed the drips of paint on the floor and touched them with her toes, at first tentatively, and then sliding them into long colored streaks with great glee.
It looked something like this: 
Actually, this was only the midpoint. But the time she was done, her face was covered in purple war paint, there were purple streaks in her hair, her legs were coated from thighs to toes, the cup of water had been knocked to the floor, and we’d even added a bit of pink and yellow paint for contrast. The kitchen floor looked like a demented rainbow.
And we were both grinning and laughing.
She announced she was done 15 minutes before we had to leave, so I tossed her in the bathtub, sprayed her off with the showerhead (which made us both grin and giggle even more), and got rid of most of the paint. I put her in fresh clothes and we hopped in the car, happier and more relaxed than either of us had been in a long time.
It’s not always easy, you’re often tempted not to do it, but sometimes, the best thing to do is to just say, “YES!” Because although “yes” rhymes with “mess,” it also rhymes with “de-stress” and “success”!
You know how, in spy novels, there's always some secret catchphrase or password that the secret agents use to identify each other, to determine who's a good guy and who isn't? Something like, "The eagle flies at midnight" or "Joe sent me" or "A Volkswagen Carmen Ghia has no radiator" (if you've seen the movie Cars 2 a million times, as I have, that last one should sound very familiar). My daughter has been uttering phrases like that all week long, to everyone she meets, obviously hoping for a countersign. Some of the more common ones are, "Max the dragon has lost his glasses," "Rocks can't talk," and "Follow me, Gossie!"
I'm pretty sure she's a spy.
It's not just the secret passwords, either. I often find her speaking into random objects, like a Barbie doll, a toy car, a stuffed animal, or a shoe (Maxwell Smart, anyone?). And if I ask her what she's up to, she immediately puts on an innocent face and, with an angelic smile, informs me sweetly, "Nothin'!" I'm not buying it, though. I think she's setting up a meet with her weasel. But as it's generally in code ("Murth dawonga weebo, na poopah"), I can't be sure.
She likes to play with my Kindle Fire, my smartphone, and my desktop computer, all of which connect to the internet. And every time she finishes using one of them, the history only shows innocent sites like Lego videos and episodes of Nick Jr. shows and PBS Kids' Games. I'm not buying that, either. I'm pretty sure she's already computer-savvy enough to wipe the browser history and plant an innocuous trail of games. I'm starting to think that "Curious George: Roller Monkey" and "Elmo Asks, 'Where's Telly?'" are really just ways to pass along secret information on other spies; "drop sites," if you will.
The really scary part, though, is that I'm not entirely sure she's a good guy. She tends to cheer for the villains more often than a secret agent on the right side of the law should. The adoring way she announces, "Exborgs!" when the villainous army makes an appearance to fight the Power Rangers; the excitement in her voice when the letters crash down from the coconut tree in "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom"; the giddy laughter when one of the cartoon bad guys gets the best of Word Girl - those are all signs that she may not be playing on the good guys' team.
On the other hand, being a spy seems to be teaching her some really useful life skills. She can apparently speak multiple languages (one of them sort of being English), her computer hacking skills are right up there with the average freshman at MIT, and her innocent face could win her an Academy Award. When it comes to disguises, she is the queen of dressing up. She can transform herself into a princess, a hoppy frog, or a dragon in the blink of an eye, with a minimum of accessories. And she is almost hamster-like in her ability to squeeze into and through small spaces.
Oh well, maybe having an evil secret agent in the family isn't such a bad thing. Evil spies have minions, right? I could do with a minion or two around here. Preferably one that does laundry. And windows. Maybe even an evil pool boy minion. Yeah, I could get behind this secret agent thing. Okay, Joe sent me. Now get him to send me those minions!
Beautiful/Not Beautiful
My features are not perfect and regular and symmetrical. They are not balanced and harmonious. They are not delicate and feminine.
My teeth are neither perfectly white nor perfectly straight. They are a bit too large for my face, a bit disproportionate and overly prominent. They are crooked.
My skin is not creamy and smooth and unblemished. It bears scars, wrinkles, sun damage, stretch marks. There are furrows on my brow and crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes. I am developing a bit of a turkey wattle.
My hair is gray, and often unwashed. It is rarely styled, or even blow-dried.
My waist is not tiny, nor are my breasts full and ripe and “perky” any longer. I have a pooch, the remnants of two pregnancies after the age of 40. There is not even a hint of a gap between my thighs. My muscles, such as they are, are hidden beneath a layer of pudge.
There are bunions on my misshapen feet. My right hand is twisted and gnarled, like an old woman’s.
There is no physical perfection in me.
But my eyes have seen my children grow. They have watched over, and protected, and soothed. They have gone without sleep as I rocked and calmed and quieted a fussy child. My ears have listened to childish prattle, and childish wisdom. They have stayed alert for cries in the night. There are marks around my mouth, from laughing, and from weeping. The wrinkles around my eyes are from smiling, and from pain.
My teeth often show in a smile, a smile of pride, a smile of joy, a smile of relief. I smile back when my children smile at me, when I see them enjoying life, enjoying the world around them, enjoying the thrill of discovery. My smile may not be perfect, or beautiful, but it is genuine. It is heartfelt. It is sincere. It is joyful.
My skin may not bear the softness of youth, but it bears the kisses of children and the handprints of small people gazing intently into my eyes as they ask me questions about life and the world and their own existence. My scars are the reminder of the pains of my own childhood, reflected in my children’s pain – pain resulting from their curiosity and their exploration of the world around them and the imperfection of the same – and in the joys of discovery. The sun damage is from hours spent outside myself, curious and exploring. The stretch marks are badges of honor from carrying my children in my own body, of the months of nausea and anticipation and tears and excitement and fear and delight and watching my body change before my eyes. The furrows on my brow are echoes of my worries about my children – will they be happy? Successful? Employed? Lucky in love? Will their morals echo my own? Will they value God? Education? Family? Philanthropy? Will they be good people? Am I being a good mother? Am I teaching them what they need to know to have a good life? Did I raise them so they will make the world a better place?
My hair may be gray and unkempt, but its color is unnoticed by the small hands who stroke it as they fall asleep, who brush it and comb it and put combs and clips and barrettes in it, who kiss it and nuzzle it and tug at it and are fascinated by it.
The size of my waist doesn’t matter to small people who throw their arms around that same waist, who wrap their legs around it as I play horsey. My breasts may not be as pert as they once were, but they provide a soft pillow for a sleepy or sad child. What I think of as “pudge,” they see as embraceable, comforting softness. The limited muscle I have is enough for a piggyback ride, a toss in the air, a boost into the car.
The bunions on my feet don’t matter, as long as my children can stand on my feet as we waltz or tango around the room, laughing gaily. The twisted fingers of my hand can still comfort and soothe and snuggle. They can still steady unsure feet, swing a small body into the air, “scritch” a tired back, soothe a fevered brow.
There is no physical perfection in me. And yet, I am here. I care. I comfort. I love.
To my children, I am perfect.
In their eyes, I am beautiful.
No other eyes matter. To them, I am beautiful.
I am beautiful. | |
