I was upstairs, sitting up in bed, reading my first of a large stack of farming books awaiting more reading time this winter.
I'd come up to take space after our 9 year old snapped at me when I had asked her to join us at the breakfast table.
He finished cooking our breakfasts and followed me upstairs, plates in hands, and sat beside me.
“I feel like I'm losing her…but I also can't let shit slide,” I paused. “I don't know where the middle is.”
He considered his words before replying. He knows that we both grew up with no shit-sliding allowed and were both “lost” to our parents early on in terms of a connected relationship. Something we each have consciously worked to do differently.
“I don't think she meant to snap,” he started. “And I also don't think you need to retract a single bit of what you said.”
It was his turn to pause.
“I think it could have been more even in tone, sure, but I also think that more people need to hear what you just said. It is prevalent, with kids and adults, and I'd never heard it said more succinctly: No screen matters more than being kind to your family.”
Hearing my words reflected back to me, even with so much agreement, I still wished I could change them.
I'm telling myself now that she's not ready for the nuance I wish I could've instilled. She needed the clear. She needed the “family.”
Sure, what I actually meant was “Nothing on a screen matters more than the people in real life whom you love who care about you.” But that didn't come out. And she might've gotten lost halfway through. Because yeah, “family” and “people you love who care about you” are not equivalents in many people's realities. But for her, for now, and hopefully forever so help me, they are.
So again, I consider throwing the TV out the window over the driveway so it has the most satisfyingly massive crash. (This is specific, because I've daydreamed this many times. Nevermind that it doesn't fit through the window over the driveway.)
“I already asked her if she thought she might owe you an apology,” he continued.
“Thanks, love. I'm sure she's giving me my space and it'll come when I emerge and she knows I'm ready.”
He agreed.
And she did. And I scratched her back and asked if she'd meant to snap. And she shook her head. And I tousled her hair, wading into a puddle of a talk about screens pulling on you and how people of all ages struggle, because it's hard, but she can do hard things.
And we have been rolling along the rest of the day.
But maybe soon we'll nudge that screen time into a smaller and smaller box, until it does fit out the window.