In the Past, I’ve Been a Nasty

There are plenty of aspects of parenthood for which I was completely, woefully unprepared: for instance, I never expected to tell another human being “Please don’t lick the window” or “Please don’t put cocoa butter on the dog.” I wasn’t ready for the cycle of ear infections or the inexplicable resistance to red foods or the constant worry. I wasn’t ready for the inexhaustible supply of Legos and Polly Pockets at the bottom of my bag. And I really wasn’t ready to dislike other children.

Let me be clear: I like children. I have always liked children. That’s one reason I wanted a child of my own. Plus, I have always considered myself a fairly mild-mannered, tolerant person. And as a connoisseur of children’s literature, I know that people who dislike children are villains, from Captain Hook to Count Olaf.  But I remember the day that I learned my own capacity for villainy. I was dropping Tink off at preschool and I took a few minutes to get her settled in. Tink went off to play with some other children and I stopped to talk to her teachers. As I turned to leave, I heard a high, bright voice laugh, “Look at what Tink did! Tink’s so stupid.” A different voice took up the refrain, “Yeah! Stupid.” A ball of ice formed in my stomach and sent sharp, narrow fingers through my veins. I turned around and walked over to where my damp-eyed daughter stood in a knot of small children who were laughing at her.

Then, I went full Alan Rickman — my voice dropped an octave and all my words grew extra vowels: “Whhaaaaaat. Diiidd. Yooouuu. Saaaaayyy.” (I may even have acquired a British accent.) The little blond cherub who had called Tink stupid looked up in shock. She shook her head. I continued. “I thought I heard you say that Tink was stupid. I hope that you didn’t, because that’s not kind and it’s not true. That would hurt her.” I struggled to keep my voice level, to not lash out or say cruel things myself; the villain in my head was raging: “You little jerk. How dare you? I am going to inflict psychological scars on you that will take years in therapy to smooth out.” Eventually, the child muttered a startled “sorry” and I marched away.

I was aware that I was more than twice the height of the child I had just spoken to. I had experience and language and self-control that child didn’t have. I was a grown-up, and by virtue of being a grown-up, I was Scary. I knew that the child had spoken thoughtlessly and that my response was probably excessive and downright terrifying. I knew all this, but at the same time, I was still angry. Another child had been mean to my child, had encouraged other kids to be mean to my child, and I wanted to make that child pay.

I would like to say that was the last time I came face-to-face with my inner Evil Queen, but it wasn’t. From the kid who announced to Tink that they were no longer best friends to the Eddie-Haskell-in-French-braids who didn’t invite her to a party, I’ve felt the same anger and frustration, the same deep dislike. I find myself rehearsing cutting retorts in my head: “Oh, yeah?” “Nuh-uh.” “Well, so are you!”

When I find myself mentally flailing in a sea of schoolyard taunts, I have to remind myself that I am no longer 15 or 12 or 10. My kid’s feelings are not my feelings. My job is to let her feel her feelings but not to take them on. Let me tell you, that ain’t easy. When Tink tells me that a friend has said an unkind thing or left her out of a fun activity, I flash back to my own teen years, to hurtful words and a sense of isolation. Hearing that my child has been excluded taps into my own buried fear of exclusion. I remember my own loneliness and pain, and I want to spare Tink from that. For a moment, I dislike the child who has conjured up those old feelings, who has reminded me of the awkward kid that I used to be.

Here’s the other thing about disliking children: the tides of childhood ebb and flow quickly. That kid who is mean to your child today may have been having a bad day, may just need time to mature. (Or you, the adult, need more perspective.) A couple years ago, Tink and another kid had a conflict that made me dizzy with anger and anxiety. The other kid had said things about Tink that infuriated me. I remember disliking this child, wanting to confront this child, working through feelings of anger and helplessness. But this story doesn’t end with me towering over this girl, lecturing her about hurtful words. Instead, she and Tink began talking about their differences. They discovered that they had more in common than they thought, and they managed to resolve their conflict without me breathing fire in the background. Today, they’re friends. If I had held onto my anger with her, Tink would have missed out on that friendship. She also would have missed out on an important lesson: circumstances change. People change – especially when those people are kids. In fact, their whole job is to change.

These days, I enjoy spending time with Tink’s peers. They’re interesting, funny, curious. I like hearing their questions and their plans. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have occasional outbreaks of Disney villainy, but while other kids (and mine) are growing and changing, I’m growing and changing too.