Snuggled into bed one night recently, my four-year-old daughter and I had this conversation:
Giuliana: Are bad guys real? Are there bad guys in Oklahoma City?
Mama: Yes, there are some bad guys in Oklahoma City, but there are not very many. There are way more good guys.
Giuliana: I don’t want to ever leave our house again because I’m afraid the bad guys will shoot me.
Mama: You never want to go to the park again?
Giuliana: No.
Mama: How many times have you been to the park in your life?
Giuliana: Like, a hundred.
Mama: Have you ever seen a bad guy at the park?
Giuliana: No.
Mama: So, all the times you’ve been there, you’ve had so much fun, and you’ve never seen a bad guy, but you never want to go again because there is a teeny, tiny chance there might be a bad guy there?
Giuliana: No, I never want to leave the house again.
Mama: Oh.
Way before I realized the ramifications – in fact, before she was even born – I made a vow to her and to myself that I would always answer her questions and always tell her the truth, even when it was hard. I had good reasons for making this promise, not the least of which is that I’m a terrible liar. The problem is that it’s REALLY hard, and it’s getting harder every single day. Now I’m answering questions about one of us dying and bad guys shooting her. It’s really challenging to ease her worries while still being honest.
I knew it would be hard to formulate age-appropriate answers to questions that, let’s be honest, I sometimes only abstractly understand myself. I did pretty well explaining why it rains, but then stumbled trying to explain to my then two-year-old where fire comes from. But I’m committed. Sometimes it would be so much easier to make something up or pretend I didn’t hear her, but I believe I would be giving up so much more than I would be gaining.
Leading by Example
I struggle to come up with the right words to say when my daughter is hiding under the dining room table in her pjs four minutes before she needs to be strapped into her carseat. In these moments, I don’t trust myself to calmly implement some well-researched, science-based parenting method, but I do trust myself. I’m much too impulsive and transparent, or as I prefer to call it, genuine, to rely on a learned behavior that probably doesn’t come naturally to me. I read all the articles and blogs and I think some of the aura of good parenting sinks in, but my ADHD will not allow me to react rationally and methodically to every situation.
A favorite quote that I first read on the wall of one of my elementary school classrooms said, “Character is how you act when you think no one is looking.” In this and other “teachable moments” with my daughter, I remind myself that she is always watching.
Inspiring Her to Trust Me and to Love Herself
In my mind, authenticity is a form of honesty. Beyond simply feeling like she can believe what I say, I want her to trust my intentions, to believe that I’m always trying to do the best I can. I strive to be as open and real as possible, proudly describing my successes and admitting to my failures.
When I screw up, I don’t ignore it or try to justify it. I tell her, “Baby girl, Mama messed up. I was wrong to take your toys away because I was frustrated. That is not the best way to handle feeling frustrated.” If she sees the most important person in her life model honesty and humility, I think she will learn that being human means, even when you try your hardest, sometimes you make mistakes. And if Mama does it, it must be cool!
I do hard stuff to take care of her. I worry, I sacrifice, I work hard. It’s why I practiced saying vulva enough times that I can say it as nonchalantly as my own name! I will never make her feel guilty for the hard stuff I do. But I do want her to understand that sometimes being responsible for another human being who doesn’t always cooperate with attaining certain goals (daily shower?) is not always a walk in the park and sometimes I mess it up a bit. I want her to feel deep down to her core that she is loved, that she is worthy of love, that she is worthy of sacrifice.
Thankfully, I’m not perfect. If I was, it would be much harder to teach my daughter honesty and authenticity and perseverance and resilience and kindness and gratitude.
Since I’m not perfect, I can just be me and answer some questions and let my daughter bask in the aura of a human being, which is good enough!
