Childhood lesson

One of the most important things to teach a child, I think, is that no matter what they do, Mommy and Daddy will always love them and they'll always be able to go home again. I want Rachel to remember her home as a place that was filled with good cooking smells, music on the radio, shelves full of books and beautiful furnishings. Much like the home I grew up in. Mom and Dad always told us that no matter what we did, they'd always love us. They told us they would even visit us in prison, if it came to that.

Tonight I had my chance to say that with Rachel. She was being really whiny at dinner -- kept begging for a cookie and wouldn't listen when I told her she had to finish her steak first. I told her she could have applesauce if she finished her steak, too. Naturally she didn't, and then she began whining for me to tell her how many bites she had to take of her steak before she got a cookie. I refused, she tired herself out, and then she got mad when she realized I had set her favorite placemat next to me instead of her.

"You did a BAD THING!" she growled. "You can't come to my wedding!"

I had to suppress the laughter. "Really, Rachel?" I said. "That seems an awfully harsh punishment for not giving you your favorite placemat."

She sat and pouted, and I just cleaned up around her. Then she got meek and quiet (probably because she realized I wasn't going to placate her) and when I gently suggested it was time for Mommy Books, she burst into tears and clutched me as I carried her into the bedroom.

"What's the matter, honey?" I said soothingly. She wouldn't answer. So I answered for her.

"I bet I know why you're crying," I said as I cuddled her in my lap in the glider. "You're worried that because you said mean things to Mommy, Mommy won't love you anymore, right? And you're probably sorry for the mean things you said."

I could feel her nodding her head around my neck.

"Well, Mommy's pretty strong," I said. "I can take it when you say mean things, but you really should apologize. But this is really important for you to realize, Rachel. No matter how many mean things you say, or how many mean things you do, Mommy will always love you. That's very important for you to understand -- as important as it is for you to know how to pee and poo in the potty. OK?"

She nodded her little tear-stained face.

"How about saying you're sorry?" I prompted.

"I'm sorry," she replied.

Then we read four books, and washed hands and face and brushed teeth, and I proceeded to tell her a made-up story (after she said, "tell me a story about a girl who rides her bicycle to the park, Mommy,") about an agoraphobic little girl named Susie who lives in a city with no playgrounds or trees or flowers ("and no bees for the flowers!" Rachel exclaimed) and she has only a piece of paper and a crayon to play with, she gets paler and paler, and her bike never gets used so it gets all rusty, and her parents get more and more worried and so they start looking for a house, but it takes them two years to find one, and then they find one in a neighborhood just like the one we live in, with trees and playgrounds and basketball hoops in the streets and houses with yards that are small but big enough for badminton sets, and Susie kicks up a huge screaming mess of a fuss when they try to drag her out of the city because she's afraid of the outside, but they wrestle her into the car and drive to her new house, and when she gets there she opens the door, looks around and asks her parents very softly where her bike is. And then she gets on it and rides her bike to the park.

"That's a GREAT STORY, Mommy," Rachel sighed when I was done. "I need to give you a big hug and a big kiss!"