My name comes screeching from the back seat.
Goodness child, I am driving. You cannot scream at me like that.
I side-eye her from the rear view mirror. She’s glaring at me with those big pouty lips sticking out, in that way that is both positively infuriating and downright adorable.
You no stop at the stop sign, Mommy. It says stop.
Now how do I explain a rolling stop to my three year old? Apparently you can’t. She has a point; I didn’t stop. I rolled. But we were in the neighborhood and no one was behind me.
Ahhh, yes I am justifying this to myself. We are at the age where my children love to tell me when I’ve done something wrong.
For Miss E. it’s currently stop signs. Of course, she’s yet to figure out that just because she sees one doesn’t mean it applies to me. She’ll see one across the street and yell at me. We’ll pass one in a shopping center facing the opposite direction and I’ll get reprimanded by my small disciplinarian.
It’s a gentle reminder of all that is to come.
I am my children’s teacher and I’m going to make a lifetime of mistakes. It sometimes feels that I already have and I’ve only been a parent for five and a half years. Imagine the mistakes I will make over the next few decades.
I tell them not to yell as I’m yelling at them. I demand they use their words when clearly I don’t always know how to use mine.
I’m human as are they.
I get lost in the sea of frustration and only stare at the surface. I expect so much from them that I don’t always see past their big beautiful eyes and see their young, wonder-filled souls, so desperate for love and learning.
I am their teacher. They learn from me.
I need to remember to come to a complete stop. When you roll, you might miss something. And with this? With my kids? I can’t afford to miss ANYTHING.