To be sure, you'll find some who try to put them together. You'll see that adorable little pink toothbrush with the ladybugs and think aww, it's so little! So irresistible. You buy it immediately. But then you find that even though it claims that the bristles are "extra soft," they are also extra little. They don't seem to be able to get rinsed very well and then they get hardened. And then you no longer have a tool for cleaning your child's mouth. You have a tool that would qualify for some type of dental work on your child's mouth.
Maybe I'm just bitter.
Because one night a few months ago, I proceeded to use one of these cutesy little tools and all of a sudden Janie let out a cry and blood began to ooze from her lower lip. Her first cut. [ever!] It wasn't my fault--it was that darned tiny toothbrush! But, of course, she didn't understand that. As she let out subsequent screams of pain--a sound I wasn't used to hearing--her eyes pierced me with why? in them. And I miserably mused to myself about how unjust it was that I, her mother, should be the one who administers her first wound.
A month later found our family of three in a small office where two nurses proceeded to prepare Janie for eye surgery. The moment we walked in the room Janie was nervous. She has been in enough doctor's offices now that when she sees a small room with a narrow bed, a small sink and a few chairs she puts her defenses up before we even sit down. Simple attempts to check her eyes, ears and blood pressure were laborious tasks. The nurses tried very hard to help Janie by "giving her a minute," leaving the room, turning out the lights, trying to allow her to calm down. I had come prepared with one of her beloved Nap bears. Janie clutched it tightly, pressing it to her face like she does at bedtime. But every time the nurses moved toward her, Janie lost it and nothing--bear, binky, stories, songs--could calm her anxiety. It didn't take long for us to agree that she would need some anti-anxiety medication. We opted for the nasal spray version. Janie opted for nothing of the kind. She howled and twisted and sobbed even after it was over. Jason held her tightly. I stood nearby, out of the way of the nurses, but still in Janie's sight, her eyes piercing me with why? in them. Jason sang softly to her. I was silent. I wanted desperately to help her understand the answer to that question. But, of course, she couldn't understand that. I took her in my arms and tried to somehow send reassurance by skin, kissing her and rocking her and stroking her as she slipped away into sleep. Not long after, a doctor gently took her from me and we watched them disappear into the OR. It felt like she was walking away with more than just Janie. I didn't know how I was supposed to exit the area when I felt as though there was an entire organ missing from my chest. In my emotionally severed state, I lamented, Nothing can be harder than not being able to tell your child how you feel. Nothing. And again I wondered how it is that parents must be the ones to inflict such pain. But in the same moment I knew that there was no way I would have let anyone else be there in my place.
Woven into the plot of one of the plays we saw last year was a comically strained mother-daughter relationship. The mother, a shrewd business woman with a hard outer shell, is constantly critical of her daughter, a feisty young actress fighting for her talents to be recognized. As the plot begins to unfold, the audience learns that this malicious mother is in reality fiercely proud of her daughter and deeply wants her to succeed. But more than that, she wants her daughter to have the knowledge that she did so all on her own, that she made her own way in the world despite criticism and without any handouts. As this twist was revealed, I was struck by the idea that this mother would sacrifice having a close relationship with her daughter in order to achieve what was in her eyes a greater thing--her daughter's success, self-esteem, the expression of her talents. She knew what her daughter needed--that a critic would challenge her and cause her to rise to new heights in defiance of the doubts of others.
And it occurred to me how the phrase tough love is also an oxymoron.
As a teacher, I was fairly confident I had the whole tough love thing down. I enforced my limits firmly with my little students while faithfully telling them I loved them at the end of each and every school day. I looked to my future motherhood with plans for keeping my stiff upper lip in trying times of trying young children. But in the dark of the theater that night, remembering the dark of the recent doctor's office and sight of the hurt in my daughter's eyes that had been burned onto my heart, I suddenly understood the part where tough love is no longer just a verb. Where the old line "this hurts me more than it hurts you" rings devastatingly true. Where you really realize that love isn't just some happy little thing that you feel and say "awww, it's so wonderful!" It's where love and all that it requires is suddenly the toughest thing you've ever had to do. And still there's no way you would let anyone else be there in your place. It's where you give everything you have until all that's left to do is wait and wonder if somehow your beloved will understand that you did what you hoped was the very best thing for them. Never mind the emotional, mental, physical, or spiritual tender you forked over to pay what it cost to veer down that winding road.
But I'm not bitter.
Maybe I'm just better.
Janie is. As both of her little eyes look into ours, as she leans out of the grocery cart trying to tell us about the sign she sees hanging from the ceiling, as she makes eye contact with her uncles across the room, as she notices me watching her from the next room and her little lips smack out a kiss, I think to myself, "aww, love! It's so wonderful!" So irresistible.
And I buy it. No matter what the cost.
