Say What You Wanna Say

I communicate for a living. All day, every day, I communicate. I don’t just communicate, I persuade, convince, and argue. I’ve taken classes, read books, and paid consultants to make me better at communicating. I know that the message isn’t just the message, but the way it’s conveyed. I know what you say isn’t half as important as how you look saying it. I am by all accounts a professional communicator. Yet, sometimes, like this morning, when I realize that my most important message to my important audience is falling flat, it is all for naught.

This morning on the way to school after having a “which do we like better” music sampling amongst Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach (thank you Mrs. Burke’s kindergarten class composers of the month – she literally knows the difference), Pumpkin asked me matter-of-factly when I was going to quit work and be a babysitter mom. I explained to her that I enjoy my job and I work to make her proud and so we can do all the things she likes to do. I asked why she would want me to quit working and she told me so I would be a nicer mommy.

Ouch.

It hurt most, I think, because she was not being mean. In fact, she was in a great mood and we were having a great morning. She was just making an observation. Bratty mean-talk would have been easier to swallow.

And here I thought I had been doing so well working on not being stressed with the kids.

That is not the mom I want her to know or remember.

That is not the mom I want to be.

But I do love my job. I am good at my job. I do good things with my job. I help people. I wear the white hat. And, as a girl-mom, I think it is so important– that my girls see me work hard and succeed, that they are proud of me, and above all that know they can do and be anything they damn-well please.

Even more than that, though, they must know I that I love them. They may never know how much, but they must always know that I love them. Always. Above all else. I would quit my job, sell my house, and live in a cardboard box if it meant them knowing that.

After that gut-check, Pumpkin bounced out of the car, thrilled to work towards getting Super Student Status today and happy we weren’t “on brown” (i.e., tardy). She never thought twice about our conversation and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

While my deep-thinking Pumpkin is keeping me in my head, Bug, per usual, is keeping me on my toes. It never ceases to amaze me how different those two kiddos are. Bug has two speeds – on and off. She’s either happy and hamming it up or angry and stomping. There is no in between, no moody, no brooding, no dark and deep. She is constantly light, constantly moving, and constantly narrating her every thought.

Last night I call out to her: “Maggie, it’s time for bed.” I look in Pumpkin’s door and she is lying snow-angel style on the middle of the carpet (apparently trying to blend in to it). She closes her eyes and says “Maggie not hewe, I da fwoor” (read: Maggie is not here, I am the floor).

What do you say to that? She’s the floor. Obviously. The talking floor.

I'm out of answers. All I got is love. Hope it's enough.