You Were Right, and I Was Wrong

Preteen phase is creeping up on us. Last week, she was just 6 years old putting on her blue unicorn leggings under purple running shorts with a graphic tee. With sore eyes, I trust the process and watch her dad take her down the stairs to the truck for school with a smile. 

I work nights, so when I get home, my energy level is minimal. My gracious partner starts waking the preteen for school while the toddler still snores in our bed. By the time he leaves for work, she’s up, and I make sure the preteen is getting ready for her daily debut for school. Rubbing one eye, mid yawn, I stumble to her room and to my surprise, she is ready to go. Usually, it’s a battle with constant reminders on what the tasks are: 

“We need to get up girly” 

“It’s 7am, we got to leave in 20 minutes” 

“Come on, we got to get dressed” 

“We have 15 minutes”

“Did you brush your hair” 

“Got to eat breakfast” 

“When did you last see your hairbrush” 

“10 minutes” 

“Did you get your phone and glasses” 

“Your glasses are on your bathroom counter”

“Don’t forget your backpack”

But today, ready to go. Hair brushed and dre- 

Oh no, shorts and tank top. The sickening thought of the word dress code hits my mind. The concern being mismatching turned into that forsaken word. The internal battle between telling her to change because of her exposed shoulders or should I leave it alone. I mean they are just shoulders, what’s the big deal? I also want her to know rules are rules. Her bright eyes start to dull out as I say I am not sure about that top. 

The head drops down and almost tears. She stumbles with sudden big feelings stating she really wants to wear this outfit. This turns into a back and forth protest. She claims it’s not a tank top, but I see it does not fit the few finger rule. I suggested a different shirt, she suggested a jacket. It was a hot day, and I knew she’d get hot. I declined the suggestion, and it turned into her asking if she could wear her light cardigan. 

My throat begins to burn and swell with words I grew up hearing:

“Don’t. Talk. Back. To. Me.” 

“Don’t disrespect me” 

“You know the rules” 

“I am the adult, you’re the child”

All things I did not even agree with myself, but they were still there. They kept rising up like word vomit. My body wanted me to raise my voice and be stern, to have control, but my mind was begging for understanding and patience. My frustration and exhaustion seeping in. Where is this coming from? It’s just a shirt! It felt like a stain could not wash out. It’s a chain to my ankle I try to pull away. 

I am met with the reminder of my own childhood. We could never fully speak our minds or have our own thoughts. Suddenly, I felt my own mother making her way into control. It brought me back to a memory where I cried as my mother would grab my chin, squishing my cheeks, telling me how it’s going to go. I would be so excited for outfits I put together and my mom telling me no, I will not have my child looking like a homeless person wearing that. That is me saying it in a nicer way than she would. 

I stopped, and I took a deep breath. I am the parent now. I decide how to handle this. I am not in a ring where my elders are cheering me on to take my daughter down like they did me. I took a glimpse of her face and saw me for a second. A young girl learning her own style excited to express it. I simply said 

“you know what, you’re right, and I’m wrong. I think the tank top should be fine because it does fit two fingers. Bring your cardigan just in case. “

With a squeal of excitement, she claimed her victory with cardigan in hands, and we had a smooth morning to the bus. 

Trust me, it was harder than it seemed. I wanted to be right and be in control. I wanted to protect her from the humiliation of the possible phone call home for another shirt because she got dress coded. I heard my grandmother’s voice “you going to let her talk to you like that”. 

You know what, I am! I love how she is comfortable to express her side of an argument. In that small, minor moment, that chain on my ankle was broken. Another cycle gone that my girls won’t have to worry about. 

I know there will be arguments I will need to put my foot down and teach her as these preteen days will grow to teen days. For today, she made valid suggestions I couldn’t say no too, and I broke a cycle. Some days will be harder to let go of learned parenting styles, and I know some days I will even fail. Little by little, day by day, we will keep growing to be better for our kids and triumph. 

She got off the bus that afternoon with no problem. No one said anything about her shirt, and she had a great day. 

What was your right I’m wrong moment?