There’s a little girl in my seven year old’s class that is new.
The only child of a single mom;
Transferred from out of state.
New home, new school, new rules,
new world.
The little girl is having a really hard time adjusting to this sudden life change.
She’s been crying a lot.
Storming off at school a lot.
Pointing her finger into other kids faces and shouting at them, “You’re rude!”
The other kids are now avoiding her,
put off by her behavior; and today I watched from the classroom window as she sat herself out on the basketball court all alone with her arms crossed and just sobbed.
She is only four years old, but bigger than even the 6 year olds in class.
The sight of her maybe betraying just how small she is inside.
I helped out in the classroom today.
Pajama Day.
I watched her unavoidable antics all day long, feeling tempted to be extra frustrated or short with her.
But I looked deeper at her today, there,
mad at the other girls because their pajama day blanket only spread out big enough for three.
Upset because no one chose her as their special reading buddy.
She looked at me once without a smile and covered me with her own blanket as I lay on the floor nuzzled up with my daughter Paige, and then just stood watching what I would do with what she had offered.
And then, in the middle of the afternoon,
when her warnings had been given, and she had already been sent to the office once,
I watched her, yet again, cross her arms and wail that something felt unfair.
And so I moved to that displaced girl.
I wrapped my arms around her tight, and hugged her firm as her hot tears dripped onto my arms.
I realized what it was that was drawing me to her most today was that today
I WAS that girl.
Feeling feelings I didn’t quite understand.
Wanting a blanket that extended far enough for me, too.
A girl that just needed to be truly seen by someone, and hugged,
even in the middle of a tantrum.
Which I had, later on, in my driveway;
still in my Pajama Day pajamas.
My friend Ori came over tonight,
after a tearful SOS,
bearing one of her velvety hugs and her big, soft eyes.
She’s grown accustomed to soothing me lately.
I told her my stories from the week, and cried until my face was puffy.
And she turned to me and told me this:
In Germany it is the tradition that when a couple is going to be married, the bride’s friends show up with all the dishes they can carry.
They then spend the night together breaking every dish they brought in the driveway.
Afterwards, the friends leave, and the soon-to-be husband and wife sweep up the mess left by the friends together, alone, and this is how they start their life.
Making messes, and helping to clean them.
A picture, again, of the mess and the beauty that I’ve felt so often lately.
And in that moment, there on my couch that’s been nicknamed
“The Couch For People Who Don’t Have it All Together”
my own broken pieces started to be swept.
The lost little girl piece that sometimes still is in me.
The sometimes lost grown up one, too.
I felt the giving I do without thanks sometimes, the times my own finger has pointed and said, “You’re rude,”
and the tantrums I’ve thrown with my own arms crossed get swept up,
and felt my own hot tears get caught by the arms that envelop me always.
By the friend that sticks closer than a brother.
The cycle of it all is so beautiful, really.
The way we pour out, and can then get re-filled.
The way that our own brokenness gives us the ability to see other people’s brokenness
and the ability to whisper,
“I see you.
I AM you.
I have been there, too.”
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
