My Child's Eyes

“Mommy, you’re the best writer. The best writer in the whole world.”

My sweet six-year-old then placed her small, tender hand gently over mine and leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

It was a chilly Friday evening in April, around 8pm, when she and I sat down to spend quality time together, our regular bedtime ritual. She pulled out a few short stories to read. I smile as she backed into me, tucking her body into the crux of my right shoulder until she fits perfectly snug. Quality time is usually on the beige carpeted floor of her bedroom, surrounded by Curious George, whom she affectionately calls “Georgie”, and his monkey-friends “Monk Monk”, and “Peanut”. 

We’re flanked on our right by animal themed boxes filled with books against one side of the wall. Tonight though, we took a detour in our location. I had lost track of time, and she, far more aware of it, quietly picked up her items and walked down the hallway into my room to be with me. She smiled at me when she entered and I can’t help but smile back at her because of the joy she radiates, but also for the silliness of her grin – a full suite of baby teeth overshadowed by a singular large front tooth.

She placed her selected stories, one or two coloring books, and a Ziploc-filled bag of crayons on top of the crimson comforter of my bed. She then threw her tiny body up and over to clear the height like a vaulter. Once snug, my daughter seamlessly starts reading from her first book. Almost immediately, I’m lost.

I can’t hear her words or the usual way she adjusts the tone of her voice when it’s a different character.

I don’t know the name of the book she’s selected. Or, how she’s started to talk to me about the characters. I’ve drifted somewhere faraway.

Picking up my phone I looked for any sign of a response to a question I posted to an online community just hours earlier. Nothing. My reaction is visceral. I immediately think this online community has no interest in what I have to say. I feel like an amateur among professionals and question why I think I belonged. I work in my home office all day, and while I engage with my colleagues virtually, physically, I am alone. A “social event” for me is typically a hello or a goodbye to other parents when I chauffeur each of my three kids to their various activities.

“Mommy, you aren’t listening!” my littlest exclaimed, staring directly at me, now just inches away from my eyes.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Mommy got distracted thinking about something. It made me sad for a moment,” I say.  

Then, my daughter did something I will always cherish. She put her book down, grabbed my right hand, and asked, “Why are you sad, Mommy?”

I apologized for not giving her the attention rightfully due to her, then deflected and asked her to go back to reading. But, she refused. She insisted that I tell her what caused my sadness. I explained to her the best way a parent can explain to a child. In this case, I was a little worried about whether someone would respond to me about a question I asked online about writing.

I knew that I wasn’t managing my own expectations well and was fully aware that I was perhaps behaving a little irrationally. None of that mattered to my daughter.

She looked at me, this time with her nose pressed to mine, with pure almond shaped chestnut eyes, and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. You are the best writer. The best writer in the whole world,” as she stretched her arms wide. “Like ever. I love you,” she said, soothingly.

"Please don’t be sad.”  

She hugged me as her long, breezy blue Frozen Elsa pajama gown draped over me and her shoulder-length black hair covered my cheeks in her embrace. She didn’t go back to reading until I acknowledged what she said and then kissed my cheek.

Her name is Hope. That night she gave me the gift of remembering who I am, that I belong, and that I am loved.