The other day Tom asked me, half (or more) seriously, why I love the baby best — why I never get mad at her, why she always gets kisses and exaggeratedly-happy greetings, and how I can cheerfully drop everything to take care of her ficklest of whims.
Evolutionary biology, I said.
But I do have three other kids; the oldest is ten-going-on-teenager and all four of them are girls: emotional, hormonal, sweet, cutting, endearing, curious, determined females. I’m not entirely sure how we’re going to survive the next twenty years, especially because the memory of my own middle school experience is so fresh, but here is what I have learned:
When kids are most unlovable, they are most in need of love. When they are sour with sickness or stinky with kid sweat and suspicious-smelling mud, they are most in need of hugs. When they are frustrated and impatient, they are most in need of compassion and patience. When they feel most unworthy and insecure, they are most in need of praise and security. When they make choices impossible to understand, they are most in need of understanding.
And when they are angry or sad enough to shout that they hate me and wish I wasn’t their mother, that is when they are most in need of exactly me: with all of my impatience and insecurity and frustration, all of my love and forgiveness and here-take-the-last-bite-of-bread (but don’t touch the brownies), they are most in need of me.
About the author
Shannon Johnson makes her home in Utah with her husband and four daughters. She blogs about coming to terms with motherhood, parenting, raising daughters and life at Seagull Fountain.
It was at this point that it hit me. I have a little girl. She can wear play dresses and tights—and I can buy frills and ribbons and flowers. She can play with dolls and pretend to teach them to read. She can play house, pretend to cook (if Hayden will let her take over those duties, of course), and dress up in my high heels. (No comment on doing her hair.)
