You're 3 now, which means you have no shame. Really. None. And I'm so glad. But you are experiencing the first pangs of guilt. You haven't expressed it really, but I can tell. It's a pouty look here, a hanging head there, and a retreat into your room when you're admonished.
Only Sunday night, you hit me. On purpose. It went a little like this:
It was bed time and Anna Claire, you wanted your bear. What you really wanted was to sleep, but you didn't know that, I guess. But you thought you wanted your bear, the brown and blue one. Only when I brought the brown and blue one you raged and fought just kept screaming, "That's not right! That's not right!"
"Anna Claire, I'm not crazy. This is brown and blue and you only have one brown and blue bear."
"I want the old one! Not the new one!" You bellowed and furrowed your brow.
I sighed. "Anna, I love you. Here's your bear. Goodnight." And I bent down, kissed you on your scrunched forehead and as I got up to walk away you slapped me. Hard. It made a sound and left a mark across my arm. Stunned, I stammered, "A-anna, you hit me."
You couldn't believe it. It's as if you flipped your lid (as Sam likes to say) and you lost control of your extremities. You didn't look sorry, but your eyes looked to your chin and you sighed.
"Anna, what do we do with the mad that we feel?" It's a question I stole from good old Mr. Rogers.
You didn't look up and you didn't answer.
So, I asked again.
And you replied as in rote and in a monotone voice, "We take a deep breath and we talk about it."
I breathed a deep mommy breath. The kind that comes at the end of a hard day when you just don't want to mommy one more minute. I wanted to tell you to say you were sorry and end the whole thing.
But we'd spent four uninterrupted days together and I realized you were as tired of me as I was just plain tired. And telling a 3 year old to say sorry is just as moot as telling her to say thank you and pretend it is real gratitude. To you, being made to say sorry is like telling you those words just fix it all. And it doesn't. So, I refrained. Instead, I just said this:
"Anna. You hit mommy. And you want your bear. And I need more help finding your bear. So, tell me what your bear looks like."
"My bear is old. And it has darker blue. And it is scrunchy. And it is big, see?" And you held up your hands to show me exactly what size the right bear was.
"Okay. I can find that bear."
So, I went into the playroom and dug through the stuffed animal tub and found your old, dark blue and brown bear that was bigger than the last bear, the wrong bear.
And I brought it to you. Only you didn't smile. You said "Thank you." You snuggled your right bear and threw the other bear on the floor.
"Goodnight. I love you." I turned off the light and began walking out the door.
"Mommy?" You whispered.
"Yes, Ann?"
"I'm sorry I am mean." You wouldn't look at me.
"Ann. You're not mean. You made a sad choice. And thank you for saying sorry. It makes my heart happy." I came and gave you a huge hug.
And we said our goodnights and you went to sleep.
Ann, there is a difference between being mean and doing something mean. It's the difference between shame and guilt.
You weren't and you aren't mean, Anna. You just did something unkind, which just makes you human. And I refused then and refuse now to let you begin telling yourself that you are anything less than good.
Shame is the lie we tell ourselves. That lie that says "I cannot grow. I cannot decide differently. This is just who I am." When we choose to be any less than our potential, we live in a state of shame. And we allow shame to choose our paths for us.
Your guilt made you feel regret. And even at 3 you attempted to spare yourself the obligation of saying "I was wrong and I'm sorry."
Because it's a whole heck of a lot easier to just say "This is who I am" than to say "This is not who I am and I can do better." The latter obligates use to choose change the next time. It obligates us to at least remember our past indecencies and make that choice to do what is right. Even if we don't choose it, we're obligated to relive our iniquities. Shame tells us to own the trait. This leaves no room for growth, no room for change.
Since it happens at 3 and 13 and 30 and so on, I know it is going to happen to you and to me again and again.
So, here's my hope for you - May you always wrestle with your guilt. Allow it to challenge you. Allow it to show you ways to love better, to live more in harmony with others and within yourself.
And anytime that shame sneaks in, may you find a way to reach down deep and find your voice. The one that says "I am good." The one that tells you "This is not who I am."
And may you have the courage to change.
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