Dear Mom, Kindly Stop Talking

Sarah Wheeler
Jul 28, 2017 · 4 min read

This morning, after my husband took my toddler to daycare, I found this letter written in bath-crayon on the inside cover of the noted children’s book “Good Afternoon, Cement Mixer!” I am still processing its contents, but offer it to you as a cautionary tale.

Dear Mom,

First, let me just say what an incredible eighteen months we’ve had together (not to mention the nine on the inside!). You have been working very hard, and your efforts have not gone unnoticed. For starters, I have marveled at how you managed to make that old bike-storage room really feel and almost look like a baby’s room. I have no envy for my friends who sleep in cavernous, adult-sized bedrooms, and in fact, I often feel sorry for them. Also, I could not be more pleased with those old people who look like you who bring me toys that play music and flash lights. I would take even more of that, if it’s available. Finally it’s the little things you do for me each day that make me so grateful to have you, and not some younger, more patient humdrum as my mom. Like how you slightly change the words of songs each time you sing them, clearly to keep me surprised and entertained.

The main message here is: you are doing GREAT. But within that message is another message that I need you to hear, which is that, despite how much I love your gravelly-yet-soothing voice, which I knew deeply before I even breathed air or saw your face, you have got to stop narrating my experience.

I think you know what I’m talking about, but just to be 100% sure that I’m understood, I’ll elaborate. Take my toy kitchen, for example. Like talking on the phone with Auntie Gigi is for you, or re-enacting jokes from Anchorman is for Dad, playing in my kitchen is my happy place. That faux-domestic wonderland, with its mix of pretend food actually intended for play and stuff that has migrated from our real kitchen, is my sanctuary. When you sit there next to me, as I attempt to slip into a fantasy world where I am Gordon Ramsey revitalizing a failing bistro, and you say things like: “Now you’re putting the fish into the pot. You’re stirring it. You are really cooking! Oooh, you’re adding a piece of cake, interesting choice. Is the pot going into the oven? Oops it’s too big!” you insult not only me, but yourself. As I’ve heard you say emphatically to Auntie Gigi before, you have a doctorate from a world-renowned university, goddamnit, and you sh0uld be doing something better with your time than telling me things I already know. Read a book. Do some yoga. Please.

Since we’re on the topic of food, how about meal times? When Janet feeds me and the other kids at daycare, it is a relaxing, culinary respite between hours of playing, hitting, and at times, biting. She lays out our food, asks if we need help or want more, and then gazes off into the distance, letting her thoughts carry her away to a well-deserved and completely welcome silence. When you feed me, on the other hand, for some reason you feel the need to describe the food and its sources in great detail, to speculate on whether I like it or not, to comment on how well I’m getting it into my mouth, to ask me questions that I clearly do not have the oral-motor skills to answer about what it tastes like, and even to babble on about what you might make me for future meals, based on your (often inaccurate) interpretations of my answers. This leaves me with no choice but to throw said food on the ground in protest, which, I have seen you acknowledge with some rage and confusion, I never do at Janet’s.

I don’t mean to pick on you here. Dad is just as guilty of this stupid, distracting behavior as you are. When he took me to the playground last week, I couldn’t wait to zone out on the swing, have a solo session mindlessly going up and down my favorite step, and put some sweet sweet dirt in my mouth. But instead of glorious me-time, what I got was dad following me around like that awesome animatronic singing dog Pop Pop brought me, making such obvious statements that I would have felt sorry for him if I wasn’t so deeply annoyed. If you manage to have a moment alone with him in the next few months, please tell him that I am aware that I am a big boy who goes very high on the swing, that I know I am climbing up up like a monkey (and of course I remember that we saw a monkey at the zoo once), and that, to split hairs, I am not doing it “all by myself” because he is literally right there next to me at all times.

Now that you’ve read this, I hope you wont mind if we walk home from daycare today without you pointing out each dog, which I have already located blocks earlier because my eyesight is far superior, and without you explaining that you just picked me up at Janet’s (yup, got it), where I just had a fun day playing with Rylance and Brogan (yup, I was there), and now we’re going home to make dinner (we do that every day). Imagine the walk we could have instead if you listened to a podcast, or complained to Auntie Gigi about how much Dad loves Anchorman, and I could be alone with my brilliant, ever-expanding thoughts? Let’s give it a try and see what happens.

Thanks for listening, and for being my one and only mom, and also for cheddar bunnies. Please don’t talk to me about how I wrote you this letter and you read it. Just stop talking, and I’ll know you did.

Love always,

Max

Sarah Wheeler

Written by

Sarah Wheeler, Ph.D. is a School Psychologist and Teacher Educator in the San Francisco Area. She has one very chubby baby and a tendency to over salt all food.

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