You Were Mean First
By
Celeste Palermo, copyright 2003
I am in a bad mood. After a long day of errands, cleaning, carpool, and full-time Mom duty, I am ready for a break. My husband strolls in the door, a smile on his face.
“Hi Hon!” he chirps. “What’s for dinner?”
“I dunno. You tell me what’s for dinner. Is dinner always my responsibility?” I snap.
“Sorry,” he replies. “I’m just hungry. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. You just come in, expect dinner, and ask what’s wrong? You’re being mean.”
“Whatever,” he sighs, heading to the bedroom to change. As I turn around, I see our daughter has witnessed the whole scene.
“You were mean first,” she tells me, her honest eyes piercing mine.
Ouch. It is true. I was mean first, but I do not want to admit it. Her comment prompts me to apologize and take accountability for my behavior.
Another day, she is very energetic, spreading her loot around the house like a dog marking its territory; toys, crayons, and dress-up clothes cover every inch of the floor. The toys distract me and soon I’m fed up.
“Peyton, your stuff is everywhere!” I complain. “When you’re done playing with something, pick it up. Don’t leave things lying around the house.”
“Sorry Mom, but are you going to pick up your stuff?” she asks.
What? My stuff? I never leave my stuff around the house. However, even as she speaks, I notice my purse, a teacup, a magazine, my day planner, and my tennis shoes also decorate the room.
“Sure, I’ll pick up my stuff, too,” I reply, embarrassed.
Leading by example is tough. My habits are always under scrutiny: what I eat, drink, do, and say. While the horror of this sounds straight from the pages of a science fiction novel, it is the omnipresent eyes and whisper-sensitive ears of my daughter that scrutinize.
I ask Peyton to be loving, use good manners, and keep her toys picked up. Yet I am a less than perfect example, often cranky, and not as neat as I would like to think. I am human; therefore, flawed. I am careful to educate my youngster that there is only one perfect example…one life lived perfectly: the life of Jesus Christ.
“We are created in His image,” I tell her. “To be a Christian is to be Christ-like. We must both look to Jesus to show us how to live.”
Even with Jesus as my example, I sometimes have a hard time practicing what I preach. One night Peyton watches as I apply lipstick before we go out for dinner.
“Mom, may I have some?” she asks.
“No. I just got this. Besides, you don’t need make-up. You are beautiful.”
“You are beautiful. Why do you wear lipstick?’
“I like it.”
“I like it, too. You should share, Mom. You always tell me to share.”
What do I say to this? She has a point. “OK, just a little…and just this once,” I tell her. She puckers up and I dab a sheer coat on her tender mouth. She analyzes my application skills.
“Good,” she says and nods her head. Then, with matching lips, we are off to dinner.
