Hearing those words for the first time didn’t go like I thought it would, sweet girl.
I remember playing over and over in my head the day that you would scream, or squeak, or whisper that sentence because of frustration, or anger and I would let the tears fall.
I would because I wanted you to see that calling your mother mean is not nice.
(And my feelings would have been very hurt, in the picture I created in my head).
But today, after playing your hardest and best at daycare, then coming home to tell us all about it, refusing dinner, jumping off of surfaces, playing in makeup, opening and closing the fridge without permission, and going potty 500 times, you were exhausted.
And so ready for an early bedtime.
But at three years old you don’t believe me when I tell you this.
Hearing bedtime and brush your teeth, pajamas and no more treats, puts me in the mean category and that, my love, is okay.
I am here to follow through, protect you, guide you, and make sure you are well. I am here to make sure the surfaces you jump off of aren’t too high, the candy you eat is just enough, and the fridge gets closed every time.
When you grow up I know you will see I wasn’t mean.
I was kind of alright.
And just being mom.