Maisy Is a Sensitive Child

Maisy is a sensitive child. 

A very sensitive child. This information should really come as no surprise since I have spent the last four years releasing spiders back into the wild and having her draw her feelings on a white board. I love who she is, and I really do try to encourage it.

The other day, she and I were at the dollar store. She was, as usual, wearing her favorite red and white tutu. An employee commented on it. More specifically she said “What a lovely dress.” To which Maisy responded, “It’s not a dress, it’s a tutu.” Not in a humble way. Not in a thank-you-for-the-compliment-but-for-clarification-purposes-its-actually-a-tutu kind of way. Just in a surly, four year old “are you friigin blind, lady?”, sort of a way. I said “Maisy that was very rude.” In a tone that conveyed, I wasn’t happy. A tone, that hopefully conveyed to the woman that I am not the type of mother who stands for that kind of nonsense.
 Maisy looked up at me, with her eyes wide and began to cry. And me? I let out an audible sigh. I mean really, I had pens to buy and here was Maisy slowing me down. As knelt down, I was prepared to hurry her along. Prepared to say something like “Firstly, you were not using your manners and secondly I am in a very big rush, so please just pull it together and let’s go.” But, something stopped me.

 I realized that I would never do that at home. At home, I’d pull her close to me. I’d ask her how she would feel if someone didn’t thank her for a compliment. I’d tell her that although I know she’d never intentionally hurt someone else's feelings that she accidentally may have. That I know how important that tutu is to her, but try to remember to bring kindness to every situation she is ever in.
 I asked myself, what was different? What was it about being in public that changed the kind of mother I was so drastically? It was because I wanted approval. Some tiny part of me desperately craves for the virtual strangers to think I’m doing a good job. Its the same part of me that cringes when someone asks where Matilda’s missing sock is, “What if they think I’m the kind of mom who only puts on a single sock?” or when an old lady comments during a toddler meltdown that I need to show her who’s boss. 

Everyday, in every way, in every decision that I make I am trying to be a good mom. And, the absolute truth is that most days I’m not totally sure I’m accomplishing that. So, showing off to an audience of strangers that this child listens to me is my way of getting the validation that I so desperately need. But not on this day. This day, I didn’t care about her absolute compliance. I didn’t care if people thought I was a permissive parent. I didn’t care if the sound of her crying was disturbing to the other patrons. I didn’t even really care if people walking by thought I was a crappy mom. I cared that she was sad that she had attempted a social interaction, and done poorly. I cared that I was the person that she wants to impress most in the world and I had criticized her in public.
 I knelt on my knees and her and I hugged her. I felt her tiny body shake against mine, still so much a baby, even at four. I waited until she was done, because in that moment all I needed from her was for her to be who she was and to feel how she felt.

 This is not to say that she doesn’t have to learn to be polite, but maybe that lesson doesn’t have to be such a battle. Maybe a lot of them don’t. Maybe lessons of kindness are not taught with hurried screams in a mall but rather by showing her the power that comes in treating others well. And maybe the best way she can see that, is by being treated with grace herself.

Written by Mandy McIntyre