Sevenses

The longer I parent, the more justified I feel my parents to have been in, well, much of my childhood.  Once a week or sometimes once a day I will have a small "aha" moment and realize, "Oh, that's why my mom did that."  Numerous tiny wounds and resentments that I've half-jokingly cherished since I was three have been slowly leeching away as I encounter the same kind of situations with my child.  And today, we had a perfect parallel experience because today is Boogaloo's birthday.

I have a vivid memory of my seventh birthday.  I don't remember the cake or the presents.  I vaguely remember the guests.  I do remember wearing a hand-me-down blue plaid dress with a white lace collar which I really, really loved.  But the most potent memory I have of my seventh birthday is being forced to clean my room on my birthday.  It just seemed so unfair.  It was my birthday.  I shouldn't have to clean my room.  Moreover, I should not have had to clean it by myself.  Most of the mess belonged to my sister, who wasn't so much younger than I am that she couldn't have helped.  I don't remember what I said to my parents, but I know that I said plenty in my head and under my breath.  I very strongly felt that the fact that it was my birthday should make me above such things. 

Fast forward 28 years, and Boogaloo is getting ready for school on her birthday.  She can't wait to tell her friends that it's her birthday, and trusting this fervor to keep her moving, I decided to jump in the shower. (I should mention that procrastination is a long standing problem at our house.)  I told her very specifically, "By the time I get out of the bathroom, you should have your school clothes on."  But when I got out, she didn't.  She was standing by her bed in her pajamas with a big box of crayons and her drawing notebook.  She jumped guiltily and began pulling her arm out of her sleeve, but it was too late.  Mommy had seen. 

I did not shout.  I rebuked her very calmly, but then I walked across the room and confiscated her crayons and drawing notebook.  As I carried them out of her room and as she threw herself on the bed and wept as only a seven-year-old drama queen can, I felt a stab of reminiscence.  My reasons were perfectly good.  My daughter has a knack for disregarding the necessary in light of the interesting.  This is not okay before school.  We've been through this before.  I daresay my mother had perfectly good reasons too.  (I was probably driving her crazy with excitement about my party, and cleaning my room was a good way to get me out of the way.)  And as I walked the three steps to my room, I realized that I was not ruining my daughter's birthday.  I was keeping instruction consistent, which is much more important than any special day. 

Did I ruin Boogaloo's birthday?  The short answer is no.  She told me she was very sad.  I accepted that.  I told her that I was a little angry.  She processed that.  Then she did the responsible thing and got her school clothes on.  I won't say that the issue was entirely smoothed over because I had to endure some hints about the drawing that she'd like to do before the school bus came, but when she got on the bus she was once again excited about her birthday and the party that we have planned for this evening.  And honestly, it's going to be a pretty cool party.  We booked a room at a place that's even better than Chuck E. Cheese.   I'm pretty sure that by the time she gets her crayons back tomorrow, she'll have forgotten about the whole thing, which doesn't answer well for my parenting.