This morning my daughter and I got off to a rough start. We were both dressing when she asked if a flash drive would get a virus if it got wet. I was immediately suspicious.
Last month she told me that her Computer teacher required the class to bring flash drives for their computer exercises. The flash drives would be collected in a box, to be kept in the classroom. I bought her one, then told her flash drives are expensive, and if her classmates are not submitting theirs, she should keep hers in her bag. I had visions of the computer teacher greedily collecting 40 flash drives at the end of the school year.
She did not submit, and neither did her classmates. So after using her flash drive in class last week, she put in her skirt pocket, where it lay forgotten, until Ate Malou did the laundry on Friday, and was returned to her, dripping.
I was mad. I got the flash drive and was scolding her about being careless as she went out to her school service. I was also mad at Ate Malou for not checking the pockets of clothing before she started the laundry. I was also mad because I was running late on a Monday morning, and it was starting to rain.
As I was walking out the subdivision gate I saw the school service ahead. My daughter was in one of the windows, looking back at me. Her face was small and serious, and I could see her hesitating to wave goodbye. The van turned the corner and was gone.
And on the ride to the office, I was of course consumed with guilt. Too much of a fuss over a small thing. I could easily have said, ok, let’s check if it’s still working, reminded her to be careful next time, and we could have kissed each other goodbye like we usually do.
Being a kid is not easy, and I say that as I look back at my own childhood. I never got into trouble for losing my things in school, but I also didn’t have anyone to sew a button back in my blouse if I lost one. My daughter is so finicky about her skirts that I get to adjust the hook at the waist almost every week. One day it would be tight; the next time it would be loose, and she would hitch at it till I lose my patience and bring out the sewing kit while she eats her breakfast in her underwear. I remember going to grade school with socks that were held up at my ankles by rubber bands, because my grandmother could not be bothered to buy new ones; I got tired of asking her.
I could say my daughter is luckier than some, because her parents could buy the things she needs for school, and the things she wants as well. But I wonder who of us was luckier: me for being largely overlooked (and so learned to take control of her little life), or her for being so closely watched she sometimes feels the need to ask for permission to take a nap.
There has to be a balance somewhere, between telling children what you think is good for them and teaching them to stand up for their choices, needing to know what your children are up to and knowing enough to give them space, teaching them to fly and letting them test the wind on their own. We grope for the balance every day. Parents, as well as children, are always walking the tightrope, hoping love will be the net to catch them if they slip and fall.
As a child I also don’t remember being apologized to. Adults don’t say sorry, even if they’re wrong. I remember resenting the hell out of the unfairness of it all. Now that I’m an adult, I find it hard to say sorry to a kid, because when you’re a grown-up, it’s humbling to admit you’re wrong to someone half your size.
So now I take a break to send my daughter a text message:
Hi, honey. Your USB is working. Sorry for being mad at you this morning.
Love, Mama.
And if I’m lucky, we’ll get to do crosswords together tonight.
Last month she told me that her Computer teacher required the class to bring flash drives for their computer exercises. The flash drives would be collected in a box, to be kept in the classroom. I bought her one, then told her flash drives are expensive, and if her classmates are not submitting theirs, she should keep hers in her bag. I had visions of the computer teacher greedily collecting 40 flash drives at the end of the school year.
She did not submit, and neither did her classmates. So after using her flash drive in class last week, she put in her skirt pocket, where it lay forgotten, until Ate Malou did the laundry on Friday, and was returned to her, dripping.
I was mad. I got the flash drive and was scolding her about being careless as she went out to her school service. I was also mad at Ate Malou for not checking the pockets of clothing before she started the laundry. I was also mad because I was running late on a Monday morning, and it was starting to rain.
As I was walking out the subdivision gate I saw the school service ahead. My daughter was in one of the windows, looking back at me. Her face was small and serious, and I could see her hesitating to wave goodbye. The van turned the corner and was gone.
And on the ride to the office, I was of course consumed with guilt. Too much of a fuss over a small thing. I could easily have said, ok, let’s check if it’s still working, reminded her to be careful next time, and we could have kissed each other goodbye like we usually do.
Being a kid is not easy, and I say that as I look back at my own childhood. I never got into trouble for losing my things in school, but I also didn’t have anyone to sew a button back in my blouse if I lost one. My daughter is so finicky about her skirts that I get to adjust the hook at the waist almost every week. One day it would be tight; the next time it would be loose, and she would hitch at it till I lose my patience and bring out the sewing kit while she eats her breakfast in her underwear. I remember going to grade school with socks that were held up at my ankles by rubber bands, because my grandmother could not be bothered to buy new ones; I got tired of asking her.
I could say my daughter is luckier than some, because her parents could buy the things she needs for school, and the things she wants as well. But I wonder who of us was luckier: me for being largely overlooked (and so learned to take control of her little life), or her for being so closely watched she sometimes feels the need to ask for permission to take a nap.
There has to be a balance somewhere, between telling children what you think is good for them and teaching them to stand up for their choices, needing to know what your children are up to and knowing enough to give them space, teaching them to fly and letting them test the wind on their own. We grope for the balance every day. Parents, as well as children, are always walking the tightrope, hoping love will be the net to catch them if they slip and fall.
As a child I also don’t remember being apologized to. Adults don’t say sorry, even if they’re wrong. I remember resenting the hell out of the unfairness of it all. Now that I’m an adult, I find it hard to say sorry to a kid, because when you’re a grown-up, it’s humbling to admit you’re wrong to someone half your size.
So now I take a break to send my daughter a text message:
Hi, honey. Your USB is working. Sorry for being mad at you this morning.
Love, Mama.
And if I’m lucky, we’ll get to do crosswords together tonight.
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