Lessons from Mama

Last night, feeling rotten and fearing the week ahead, I called my Mama in tears.  Will you come?  Six hours later, she had flown up the coastline and was perched on the edge of my bed, patting my hand.  The tears rolled again, but this time, I was happy.  And relieved.  It feels so good to be the child again, sometimes.

Every time I watch Mama with my boys, I learn something about being a mother.  This morning, she was encouraging Little Guy to make his bed before they hit the sidewalks for a museum adventure.  He had been very helpful all morning, but was beginning to get cranky.   You could just see the little storm of defiance brewing behind his eyes.  Another few challenges and he was going to be outright bad.

He has this thing he does sometimes, where he'll go from turning somersaults and jumping up and down, to telling me he's sooooooo tired and his legs hurt and he really needs a snack and he doesn't know how and he just can't.  Can't clean up his toys, can't take his clothes to the hamper, can't clear his plate.  You know, the un-fun stuff.  It pretty effectively riles me, but this morning, Mama refused to let him get there.  She patiently showed him the corner of the sheet to pull on, and once he'd given it a grunting, half-hearted effort, moved on.  At her direction, he then tugged at the coverlet--so minimally that it moved only a few inches--with a little squeak that was supposed to indicate that was all the strength he had in him.  I'm sure he thought there would be a reaction to his display of grumpiness, but Mama just quickly finished pulling the coverlet up to the pillow, tucked his lovey in and announced, "There we go, Little Guy.  Tomorrow, we'll do it even better!"  And then, they were off for their adventure.

I know it wasn't how I would have approached the matter.  I would have stood my ground and made Little Guy make the bed by himself, to the level of completion that I know he can achieve.  And, given the circumstances, I probably would have encountered a good bit of resistance.  We likely would have had a timeout or two in the midst of the bed-making.  Our departure would have been delayed.  My frustration level would have been high.  Quite high.  The whole ordeal may have soured our morning.

And, really, to what end?  The bed would have been made to {3 year old-level} perfection by the 3-year old himself, but he would have been given an opportunity to lash out at his mother and become the center of attention and throw off the family's plans.  He would have wielded an awful lot of power, and I'm not sure my correction would have outweighed the excitement of the power grab.

I think it was better, in that moment, to ignore his efforts at misbehavior, squelch them before they had a chance to fully develop, gain a bit of compliance and at least symbolic obedience, and just move ON.

It's a lesson to remember.