She did it again. Just as I grabbed my keys to head out the door, my youngest daughter decided she hated her outfit and wasn’t sure it was even the right look for the occasion. I sighed dramatically while she ran up to her room to grab a different shirt just in case.
If you could open me up and see a panel that says, “BUTTONS, DON’T PUSH,” this would be one of them.
So here we were, quickly driving to the event as McKenzie changed her shirt in the backseat, having to listen to me lecture her about how much this frustrates me. Of course it led to some discussion about integrity and life and the importance of not caring about what others think and suddenly in my mind she was in some seedy location, making decisions she didn’t want to make because she was so worried about what everyone else might think. At one point, I could tell she was frustrated with me. I said, “What are you thinking right now?”
She half shrugged, “Well, it’s just that we are talking about clothes, not life decisions I am going to make.”
I sighed (less dramatically this time) and said, “Ok, you’re right, but will you just admit this is a pattern for you?”
We drove in silence for a minute and then eventually reached a resolution which led to a hug and kiss as I dropped her off at her friend’s house.
The next morning, McKenzie sat next to me at the table, and I said, “I need some ideas about what to write about on my blog for the next couple weeks. Got any for me? About hope?”
She looked at me and smiled. “How about fashion issues with your daughter?”
I raised my eyebrows. “And how would that be about hope?”
She shrugged and said, “How you HOPE that I will stop having them?”
I laughed, “Well, I don’t know if THAT is the kind of hope I am trying to write about.”
Is that what Hope is? That we just keep hoping that stuff we don’t like would change?
I shoved her a little and we both giggled.
She then walked over, sat in my lap and wrapped her arms around me. She touched my face and said, “I love you, Mom.”
I held her tight and whispered, “I love you too.”
In her book, Found, Micha Boyett describes a similar moment with her young son and writes, “Here we are, alone in the entryway of our apartment, both of us staring at the other, and I feel his love for me, his hope for me. I believe he wants my wholeness as much as I want it for him. We may spend our lives misunderstanding each other in so many important ways. But he’ll remember that I loved him. He’ll remember that sometimes, for a brief, remarkable moment, we noticed one another.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
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