Sorry is a little bit like glue…

I’m quite certain that every parent has at some point had dealings with a child whose behaviour is utterly out of order.  I’m equally certain that every parent has at some time or other felt clobbered by their beloved offspring.

I can’t remember a day since Eldest was 10 months old, that one or other of the three of them hasn’t at some point left me feeling clobbered.  I often talk about my patched up heart (this old post sums things up!) but I particularly hate the cuts and bruises that my heart suffers at the hands of my Offspring.

And so, the other day, a Facebook post made me think of a hands on way to try and make a point…

Sweet Girl and I went to the shops this afternoon before Little Man came home from school.  We stopped at the charity shop and chose two beautiful china plates – one that Sweet Girl would love, one that Little Man would desire.  On the way home we popped into another shop to purchase some glue.

Oh, did those children love those plates!!!  “Can we have our dinner using them, Mummy?”, cried Little Man.

No.

They reluctantly followed my instructions, and wrapped the plates in paper, then slipped them into plastic bags…

I brought out the hammer.

And unwillingly, unhappily, they smashed their plates.

Oh yes, I’m that mean.

Little Man was in tears at the sight of the pieces, Sweet Girl was holding back.   They both felt really sorry for the loss of their plates.  We used that “sorry” word a lot.

And I got the glue, and we started to put those pieces back together.

It was tricky – I am not a china plate restorer, and my glue was sufficient for the purposes of the lesson, but not of the “super” variety.

The plates are “whole” once again, but not the same as they were before.

“Sorry” puts pieces back.  Time allows the glue to set.

But once you smash something, it will never be the same again…

The me within

The me you’re likely to meet, if ever life should twist in such a way to allow us such a pleasure, is the me I lend to the world.  The me whom others think is strong, optimistic, patient.  The me whom others praise, often with the words, “I couldn’t do what you do”.

(Of course you could.  I did not choose to live my life, and I suspect that if I had yours I would feel the same way you do.  But the reality is that the vast majority of us rise to the occasion.  We do what must be done, because the alternative is far too sad.)

That “me”, the one you’d meet, smiles a lot.  She’s also learned the value of tears, and they spring quite easily when the going gets tough.  She tries to show that emotions are different to actions; that it’s ok to feel sad when sad things happen; that even if you feel angry, you can choose to stay calm and find a solution without resorting to angry words or angry hands.

You might say she’s a pain in the butt at times, and horribly stuck-up!

That me, the “me without”, is the one who keeps the conveyor belt going.  The one who writes those well worded letters (thank you so much, St. Mary’s Ascot, I couldn’t do it without that education) to various authorities, the one who makes lists and timetables and ensures that appointments are attended and all relevant people are notified of change.  The one who just makes sure that the little machine that is my family keeps chugging along.

(Oh, and the one who just spent five minutes changing all the “that”s to “who”s in the last paragraph because she’s really quite anal about that kind of thing… Good grief, me!)

But then, there’s the me “within”.

Oh me, oh my…

The me within is maybe younger than the me without, but she’s definitely smaller… So small, in fact, as to fit inside my heart with room to spare.  She’s the one whose home just keeps on breaking, and as fast as she tries to patch it up it seems another wall begins to crack.

The me within is mostly confused.  All those emotions with very little of the analysis reside in her.  She wants to batter down the walls her life feels comprised of.  She’s trapped in a repeating loop of hurt, and she wants out.  Some days she’s screaming, pounding so hard that my chest feels like it may burst open.

Other days she loses hope and energy and sits in a corner of my heart, knees pulled up to her chin, sometimes crying, sometimes simply still…  The stillness scares me most.

I must remember that the me within is the one who jumps for joy at the slightest hint of happiness.  A red sky at night, a hug from Eldest, the smallest things can raise her spirits.  And in turn she allows the me without to rejoice, to take pleasure in a job well done and a hint of pride at still being on my feet.

We work well on the whole, she and I, me and her…  I try so hard to let her be, to let her feel.  I wish I could in some small way take away the confusion, the uncertainty but her nature is to feel, not to think.  And what she feels is True, even when it’s raw and irrational and confusing.  So I try to let her feel, and remember that this pounding too will pass.