I made this for dinner tonight. It was delicious.
The 9yo did not think it was delicious. He also did not have the tools or capacity tonight to say it in a way that was kind. So, it was “gross,” “disgusting,” and “horrible.” I told him it was okay that he didn’t like the food, and that those words hurt my feelings.
And, then he was worried that I would get angry. “Now you’re not going to let me have any food. I am going to starve.”
Not getting any food if you don’t eat what’s for dinner is not a rule in our house. Everyone gets to always know they will be able to eat and no one in our family will ever go hungry.
He just couldn’t see it.
It took a few rounds and several minutes of him balled up on my lap hugging me before we got to the words he needed and thereby a bowl of cereal with bananas. We found the light and our way out.
Then.
Tucking in 11yo, I went to kiss her on her forehead and she moved her head forward. I saw stars and both lips were bloodied. I’m at the foot of the bed taking breaths, remaining calm, quietly saying, “Owwwww.”
She’s at the head of the bed, holding her forehead, ramping up because she’s scared I’m mad at her.
I cannot talk because my mouth hurts.
I pull myself together and hug her. “What do you have in your head that makes it so hard?” I ask in an exaggerated voice. It is enough to tease out a giggle. Light and our way out.
After books and rubbing her back, I get up to go.
“Hey, Zac!”
This is our ritual. She’s trying to find something to hold on to the day, the ritual, the time together. Some nights, the “Hey, Zac!” gets out before she’s thought of what she’s going to say or ask, and I stand in the doorway waiting. Tonight there’s no wait.
11yo: Hey, Zac!
Me: Yes, love?
11yo: You are the best dad ever.
Me: You are the best daughter ever.
11yo: Love you. Goodnight.
We find the light and our way out.