Sorry, Mommy

In a cup, melting away into its sticky liquid form, sat the tri-colored popsicle still untouched. In all its weeping, it probably produced at least half an inch of its melted state already.

Not for the first time she contemplated whether or not she should indulge herself with its tasty, icy delight. But it was the meaning behind doing such that gave her pause. Given, it wasn’t a bad idea considering the summer heat they were in and she had in fact considered buying some ice cream, both as a treat to the people in the house and as a way to “beat the heat” as it were.

Except the popsicle in question wasn’t given to her as a treat, nor for the heat.

It was the weekends, the kind of days she looks forward to, since it was the only time of the week she could spend the whole day at home with her daughter. A little girl of four years, curious, cheerful, and full of energy as any four-year-old would. Her daughter Pate had been the light in her life, and was the first living person ever who had taught her what love at first sight is like, and that it truly existed. Pate was also the first and youngest person ever who taught her what it’s truly like to love unconditionally. She just never would have thought she had to become a mother for her to learn such things.

She’s had no communications with Pate’s father whatsoever, and she intended to keep it that way if she could help it, though it did sadden her that her daughter was growing up not knowing a father. She was at least thankful for her own father’s presence in her little girl’s life. A grandfather of three, Pate was his first granddaughter, and seem to love little Pate dearly. Sometimes when she would stare at the two of them, amidst laughter and kisses, she wondered if he was ever the same when she was a little girl herself. For she found that she couldn’t recall a time her father was ever affectionate towards her. But the distant past had been so long it didn’t matter that much anymore and she had put it behind her… most of it.

As a single parent, she told herself she had to make do with what she has, for her daughter’s sake. Thankfully she was not unemployed, though sometimes she wished she could find a way to earn money while staying home to spend more time with her only child. But as life would have it, one cannot spend all their time with their children, no matter how much one would want to. Life would simply not allow that. A great many things would be in need of attention, and raising a child as a single parent was only one of those many things.

Her patience and understanding were constantly tested as well, as she reminded herself a thousand times over that crying is the norm with growing young children. At first, as a newborn, that was how they communicate since they do not yet know words. As they grow and learn to speak, crying then becomes a way to communicate emotions. When they’re upset, they cry. When afraid, they cry. When angry, they cry and then some. Young children are honest with their emotions that way, for they have yet to learn how to control such feelings, or understand why they should even control it.

For more than once, as Pate grew into a toddler and eventually curiosity turned into experimental exploring, she had lashed out with anger and shouted for a stop to the high-pitched screaming and wailing that could easily make one lose their mind, and sense of hearing. And for more than once she felt guilty and ashamed when her little darling settled down to a whimper, and looked at her with those big doe eyes wet with tears.

She never resorted to hurting Pate as a way to discipline, though admittedly she had smacked those little cheek bums as a warning that she was serious and not playing around. It didn’t have to be so hard that the pain would sting her own palm, just a little smack that would produce enough sound where skin would bounce off of skin (or clothing). But it wasn’t something she would like to use often, and warned her siblings to avoid if possible should they find themselves having to chastise Pate, for one reason or other. It should be noted that the siblings in question didn’t have children of their own. Well, at least not yet, if they ever had plans anyway. Still, there needs to be a means of discipline, so she decided on the “spend a time-out at the corner of the room” method. Pate would cry out even more and would refuse to stand or sit still in the corner the first time. But as she stood firm as the parent, Pate eventually understood how things would go, and would then come to dread ever hearing, “You’re having a time-out.”

She was in no way a perfect mother, nor could she claim her methods of discipline and rearing is the perfect way either. Lots of mothers, with more children and far more experience, would be happy to give her advice. But she always reminded herself to stick to her own ways if it was working just as effectively. For sure, she had spent so many times feeling guilty when Pate first learned to sulk and as a way of apology, she would cuddle with her little darling. On most occasions when her anger would dispel, the need to hold her baby close in her arms was too powerful to ignore. But there had been a few occasions where she had hardened her heart. Even if it were just for a few moments – for she could not possibly bear to be aloof towards her baby girl long – it had hurt her even more in the end.

This could probably count as one of those few occasions.

It started with wanting to have an alone time to herself without having to leave the house. So, she opened the TV and left a cartoon show on for Pate to watch, and made sure to let her sister know so that someone was still watching over. She didn’t close the door to her room to listen in on her daughter just in case.

Her idea of relaxing on a weekend long before Pate was born was a good book and a quiet room. She had only taken up reading again weeks after Pate’s first birthday. But even then, she hadn’t read as much as she used to. How she missed it – the feel of a book between her hands, flipping page after page as she gets lost in the prose, and conjuring up in her mind what the characters and places in the story may have looked like in the author’s head.

By the time she got through chapter five, a sudden crash pulled her out of the momentary escape, and back to the real world. When she looked up, Pate had managed to climb over one of the shelves and had one hand reaching for a stuffed toy-bear. The crash was from a picture frame that fell to the floor. Her daughter apparently left the living room, the TV still on, and had managed to enter the room without her noticing.

Her first instinct was to run to her daughter for fear that the little girl might fall. By the time she had Pate in her arms, her anger made its way to be known. Though it wasn’t anger directed entirely at Pate, but more for herself who was too engrossed in the book she hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings, or her sister who wasn’t paying much attention to Pate either. Or it could also be that it frustrated her that her alone time was interrupted so suddenly. Either way, Pate was sadly caught in the middle of the storm, and didn’t even understand why. By the time she was finished raging she had taken down the stuffed toy from the shelf, stomped her way out her room and personally left Pate in her sister’s care, and had cleaned up the glass fragments off the floor.

Pate was repeatedly crying out an apology, upset and scared at the same time that her mommy was angry at her, but she had ignored it the entire time and never once made any indication that she accepted the apology, or acknowledged Pate’s cries. She had locked herself in her room then, her boiling anger receded to a simmer which strangely reminded her how hot it was, and found herself having lost interest on continuing to read the book.

The picture frame held a picture of her and Pate, back when Pate was but eight months old. It was the first birthday she had ever celebrated as a mother. She was all smiles in the picture, while Pate, too young to even comprehend what was happening, was looking at the camera with a blank expression. As blank as what an eight-month-old could manage to make, but she would like to think that it was Pate’s cute way of looking clueless, which may be the case. She wanted to be reminded of that moment, so she had the picture printed-out and put in a frame. And possibly point it out to Pate and tell the story behind it someday in the future.

The frame had been dumped into the garbage can and the picture was then hidden away in a drawer. For a fleeting moment she brooded over whether or not she should buy another frame or put the picture in an album instead.

When her door opened minutes later, she was in bed browsing through her phone as Pate came in bearing two popsicles, one on each hand. She was frowning at the phone-screen as the little girl approached timidly and once again murmured a sorry. She ignored it, as if no one was in the room with her. Before the silence became too awkward, Pate sadly put one of the popsicles in the cup on the bedside drawer, upside down.

She had taken the cup with her as she went into her room drinking water, but otherwise it sat on the drawer empty and almost forgotten. Staring at the popsicle that sat in that cup, still melting away, she sadly looked back at that moment, which had just occurred a while ago.

A tasty treat, offered to make peace. It was touching. It was innocent. It pulled at her heartstrings as a mother. Yet why would she still not take it?

It was times like this that made her think if she was the first parent to have ever wondered whether or not she – the adult – was the one being childish and not the child.

A minute later she emerged in the living room with the popsicle in hand. She found her daughter watching TV again, the girl’s own popsicle halfway finished. She sat down on the sofa and found a Shrek movie was on. Though which part of the movie franchise, she couldn’t remember. It certainly wasn’t the first one, that’s for sure.

“Where’d you get the popsicles?”

Pate had been looking at her expectantly, but still was tentative despite having been acknowledged. “Auntie. Is it good, mommy?”

She had licked the icy delight and had taken a small bite off the tip by the time she went into the living room. “Yep,” she nodded, “sure is. Thank you.” She made sure to keep her voice light and to smile.

Pate leaned over to her with a pleading look in her eyes. “Sorry, mommy. Lab, mommy, lab.”

Is it an innate ability in young children to put adults to shame by their innocent actions?

She placed a kiss on her daughter’s little head, whose hair smelled of kids shampoo and a bit of kiddie sweat. “Mommy loves you too, baby. Mommy is sorry.” Mommy should be sorry. She held out the popsicle, as if to offer it up. “Cheers?”

Pate’s lips spread into a dimpled smile and touched the popsicle with her own.

What her daughter understood about a toast was that it is the act of touching your glass on someone else’s and make sure there was a clink sound before proceeding to drink the contents at the same time. The little girl then decided for some reason, to do it with food as well. Since then, when Pate says cheers, it became her way of saying that the food (or drink) that she would have “a toast” with someone, she would share it with that someone together.

In this case, it was a mutual understanding between mother and daughter, that everything was okay. That mommy wasn’t angry enough to not love her little girl anymore. That there was no point in letting the popsicle melt over a small incident where no (serious) permanent harm was done.

“What do you say about swimming in the pool later? Say, after the movie?”

Big eyes came up and looked to her. “Yes, yes, mommy! After the movie. Let’s swim!” The little girl clapped happily, before bringing her attention back on the movie again, as if willing for it to end a little faster. She smiled widely at that, almost chuckling, and took another bite off the icy sweetness on a stick.

Somehow, the popsicle tasted even better than usual.