When I was a kid, I swore my mom could read my mind. Maybe I was just a really good hinter. I don’t know, it just seemed like she always knew what I was thinking, what I wanted, what I needed.
There were times, though, when she’d perform her mind-reading magic and then warn me that someday, I’d expect the same from others in my life and be sadly disappointed when they couldn’t read my mind.
Last night my older daughter and I had such a moment.
She was in a predicament. One that doesn’t need to be aired for all the internet to read but yes, a predicament.
She made a subtle hint and I asked her outright if she was suggesting we go to Walmart that evening and fix her predicament.
She nodded gratefully.
I then had the conversation my mom often had with me when I was my daughter’s age about reading minds.
We moms are pretty awesome, aren’t we? Our kids come to us with no manual, no instructions. They’re really nothing but pee and poo machines who eat, sleep (if you’re lucky) and make messes. We’re expected to figure out that they have different cries for different needs and to know those needs based on the very small difference in the cries.
And yet we figure it out. But once we do, those darned kids change it up again. Suddenly they’re talking and we have to decode their toddler-speak. Then they’re preschoolers with brand new stresses.
And now we’re on the cusp of the teenage years and she’s got emergencies (not what people are probably thinking…aka, it was not a, shall we say, monthly type of emergency) and I’m decoding her hints and we’re working it all out.
The biggest thing for me when it comes to mothering that older girl? Talking to her, listening to her, spending actual time with her. We’re keeping the lines of communication open and she knows I’m here to help her with anything, even if it takes a little mind reading.