The best and the worst

Today was an interesting day. Happy and fun and hard and long and draining—all of which resulted from one little gal. A harrowing yet lovely Mother's Day.

Anna greeted me this morning with violent hugs (which are her calling card) and a bag filled with two cards, a picture of her on a stand she made at school, and a paper with her answers to questions asking what she knows about her mother. (For my job, I apparently "fix emails.") I read the notes and delighted in her thoughtfulness and sincerity. My heart sang as she said forthrightly, "You're the best mom in all ways . . . . except when you make asparagus and avocado." We snuggled in bed, laughed and talked, and all was right with the world. Then we eventually got up and got ready for church. And everything was just fine.

She chatted with the bishop for a few minutes before church, and he happened to ask if she had given me a hug this morning. She said yes and then said, "Actually, I tackled her." Which is quite true. Like I said: violent hugs. He mentioned this exchange over the pulpit—what one little girl said, anyway—and I smiled. Because I happen to agree: a good percentage of what this girl says should be publicized.

Then at church, because I turned to the opening hymn and she didn't get to, she sulked THE ENTIRE TIME. No matter what I did or said, she didn't snap out of it. Even when I told her she was welcome to get over it and find the next two songs, she said, "Nothing you say will make me happy ever again." I let her be for a while (she spent a good deal of time bent over with her head on her knees, which is the true sulking position, I guess), and she only became somewhat pleasant when I offered to draw with her. She complied, but she didn't forget to frown once in a while. Everything was not fine.

After church, when I thought all was forgotten, I told her that she couldn't, in fact, take a shell filled with glitter to her BFF right that very minute, and I was once again out of her good graces. She was upset and harrumphed away, sulking in silence for the next hour while I helped prepare dinner.

We ate a delicious meal in honor of my mother, including delicious layered peanut butter and chocolate pudding cups for dessert, and then later Anna and I took turns blowing bubbles outside and catching them. We sat on the porch together, and I read her the story of Rapunzel. It was a lovely moment.

Then later, as I cleaned up a mess that got all over her clothes and shoes after an unfortunate accident, sweating because it was hot today yet still not time for the a/c, I asked her to quickly brush her teeth and floss because it was time for bed. Her first response was to complain and she started to ask if she could just do "one last thing." Utterly exhausted, I quickly put a stop to it and said I just wanted her to do what I asked without whining and complaining. For once. I left her in the bathroom to get ready for bed, but she made an appearance soon after. She came up to me and said quietly, attitude very apparent, "I just have one question. Woud you rather have an interrupting mother or a mother who doesn't interrupt?"

I knew where this was going, and I didn't like it. She was upset that I interrupted her complaining back in the bathroom. I was shocked by her impudence, and I advised her to stop this line of questioning before the situation got much worse. I sent her back to brush her teeth, and she wept in the bathroom. She was still upset with me as she went to put her pajamas on.

Things were still touchy when she didn't like the book I picked to read and she said/cried in a crazed voice, "Do you hear that half cry in my voice? Because I do and it's weird!" Normally, I try not to give in to her requests when she's whining, but I quickly agreed to read another book because I knew she was about to blow. And this girl just needed to get to bed.

I read some, hugged her tight, and said goodnight. Then I walked into my bedroom and collapsed on my bed.

What on earth was the deal today? It was like a volcanic eruption of emotions all the live-long day. Was she jealous of the attention others were getting on Mother's Day? Was she exhausted from being so cute and thoughtful? I just don't know. But what I do know, what I finally realized, is that it was, in fact, a perfect mother's day. Because there was the good along with the bad, the hard along with the happy. It was fitting, being utterly frustrated just moments after being utterly delighted. Because that's real life, that's real motherhood. So thanks, Anna, for a truly remarkable day. Even though it's often hard, I am truly happy. I wouldn't trade being your mother for anything.