Reflections On Mothering And Doing Your best

My daughter says she can always tell when I’m on the phone with my boyfriend. She says my voice gets high and light—different. She says I don’t talk to her like that.

“You talk to me mean,” she said.

I told her it’s because I start off with my “light voice,” but when I have to repeat myself so many times, I just get tired. 

But deep down, I know I invalidated her.

Her words hit me hard, like a gut punch. It reminded me of what Toni Morrison said about how a child knows if your eyes light up when they walk into the room. 

Gah—it stung. Not just a little, but a lot.

It also reminded me of a time when I told my grandmother not to yell at me. She tried so hard to change. Every time she’d say something she thought was important, she’d add, “And I am not yelling.”

My daughter, though—she doesn’t just want me to not talk mean to her. She says she wants me to be her friend. She gets upset when I tell her I’m her mother. I don’t want her to get confused, but honestly, I think I’m the one who’s confused. (That part? I’ll save for therapy.) What she really wants is more of me.

So, yesterday, on the drive to school, while we were sitting in the car waiting for the doors to open, I said,

“Mommy needs to talk to you about something.”

I felt her body get stiff, nervous. I told her, “I heard you when you said Mommy talks mean. And I’m gonna work on that.”

Her whole face lit up.

I added, “Can you work on listening?”

We made a pinky promise right there in the car.

I promised her that I’m going to keep listening, even when I’m still figuring out how to get it right.