Mother doesn't know best

by Lisa Pereira

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As a little girl, I was sure that a good parent would allow me to eat all the cookies in the cookie jar or buy me toys at Toys R Us.

When I got a little older, I figured that a good parent would let me stay up past ten o'clock on school nights.

Then I became a teenager and I felt that a good parent would buy me a car and let me be independent.

According to these definitions of a "good parent," my parents always fell short. It wasn't until I became a parent that I began to understand what a good parent really is. My two-year old daughter taught me this lesson in her simple childlike manner.

Having church at eleven o'clock is difficult for our family. Church time is play time, followed by lunch, and ending with naps. Needless to say, we always struggle during that first hour before we can deposit both Jenny Beth and Juliana into the nursery for the remaining two hours. I admit, it's crazy to expect a one-year-old and a two-year-old to sit quietly through an hour of inspirational talks that they consider boring. Nevertheless, we attend church as a family. This particular Sunday was no different.

"Mommy, look! Taylor! Taylor!" Jenny Beth said excitedly to me during the church service. She wasn't using her whispering church voice as we had rehearsed on several occasions. Needless to say, I was a bit exasperated and embarrassed. Besides, I knew that Scott and Joy Rowe, Taylor's parents, were sitting a few rows over. I had seen them enter and sit down. Their one-year-old daughter, Taylor, was in Scott's arms. I had even discreetly waved to them.

Hastily, I rummaged through the diaper bag and retrieved two tattered and torn books that were well-loved and well-gnawed by my two daughters. These were our "church books." We had taken these two particular books to church every Sunday for two years. They were the "favorites" that Jenny always selected when faced with the difficult decision of which books to include in our church bag.

I handed the books to Jenny in an effort to quiet her down. It didn't work, as I had hoped. She persisted with, "Taylor! Hi, Taylor! Play Jenny?" Her voice was considerably louder than before. Because the chapel has a high ceiling, her voice had an echo. "Taylor," was now "Taylor, aylor, aylor." I was humiliated as others appeared either disturbed or amused.

I put my finger firmly to my lips in the universal code meaning: "Be quiet, now!" Jenny didn't notice or if she did, she didn't acknowledge my command.

Grabbing my face and squeezing it with the palms of her hands, she said, "Please look, Mommy. It's Taylor." Being at the age when she thinks that the word "please" will earn her anything she desires, I turned around to appease her. I was really hoping that she would be quiet after I had done as she wished. I glanced back behind me and pretended to look in the direction she was pointing. I knew that Taylor was not sitting there. Therefore, there was no need to examine the area thoroughly.

Turning back around to her eager face, I said, "No, Jenny. That's not Taylor. Do you mean Hanna or Katie?"

"No, Mommy, it Taylor!" Her voice had gotten frustrated and impatient.

I could feel my face turning red and getting a little hot. Pushing my lips to her ear, I said in a sharp whisper, "Jenny, that is not Taylor. Now, turn around, be quiet, and read your books." She ignored me and angrily gave up. She knew that it was no use. Her own mother didn't believe her. It hurt her feelings. She wouldn't even look at me. She was mad. I pretended not to notice and returned my attention to the speaker.

About fifteen minutes passed and my other daughter, Juliana, was too squirmy to sit still, so I picked her up and carried her to the back of the chapel. The chapel is quite long with three aisles separating the horizontally positioned wooden pews. I exited down the aisle nearest my seat and quickly hurried to the back where Juliana could stretch her legs.

From the rear, I could see almost everyone in the congregation. That is when I noticed Taylor. Jenny was right. There she was; Taylor was sitting several rows behind the bench where we had been sitting; she was right in the very place where Jenny had spotted her, right next to Hanna and Katie Lifferth. The Lifferths are next-door neighbors to the Rowes. Taylor wasn't sitting with her own mother and father as I had assumed. Instead, she was playing with her neighbor friends and perched atop the lap of their mother.

I was surprised. My daughter knew something that I didn't know. She is only two years old. I am supposed to be her teacher, advisor, and mother; she isn't mine. Or, is she? I felt like a terrible parent. I had automatically discredited my child because she is two years old and I am twenty-seven. Not only had I disbelieved her, but I ignored her anger to teach her that anger was not an acceptable behavior in order to have your own way. She was justified in her anger and I treated her as if she were acting like a spoiled brat.

A parent can be distinguished by age. A good parent cannot. A good parent is more than an older person who gave birth to a baby. A good parent not only listens but hears what is being said. A good parent remembers what it is like to be a child and empathizes keeping that in mind. A good parent not only believes in her children but believes them as well. A good parent can admit when she's wrong and acknowledge when her children are right. A good parent says, "I'm sorry."

After church was over, I went to Jenny, my smart two-year old, and hugged her. I told her that I was sorry and asked for her forgiveness. She hugged me back and kissed my lips. She had completely forgotten what she was mad about only moments earlier. Accustomed to being told to say "Sorry," she misunderstood my apology and said, "Horry(sorry), Mommy." My eyes filled with tears. She was so merciful.

"Let's go nursery, Mommy!" she said with anticipation. I felt like a good parent again.

I was still the mother that day; however, I played another role, as well. I was a student in my daughter's classroom. She taught me a valuable lesson about parenthood. Mother does not always know best.