By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman

It’s 7:30 at night and I am standing just outside my sons’ bedroom crying as quietly as possible. 

Our house is mostly still except for the repetitive thump of my 3-year-old’s feet against his bedroom wall on the other side of the door. I put him to bed at 7:00, and it’s anyone’s guess when he will finally decide to stay there. Every few minutes, he stops kicking the wall, walks to the door, opens it, and waits to see what I will do. Each time the door opens, I walk him back to his bed, walk back out, close the door, and wait for him to show up again. We exchange no words. He already knows what he needs to do; he just needs to do it.

We do this dance often, and tonight I am especially tired of it (hence the quiet crying). 

I’m not being quiet for the 3-year-old’s sake though. I’ve muffled my volume because I’m keenly aware of my 7-year-old daughter’s presence just around the corner in the living room. 

Norah sits sideways on the light blue couch in purple unicorn pajamas. Her legs are crossed, and she has a chapter book about fairies in her hands. I catch her out of the corner of my eye each time I walk into the boys’ room. She makes no sound, and her face is expressionless. She’s not oblivious, though. I know she sees this entire scene and hears it all too. 

Compassionate by nature and a people pleaser to the core, I wonder what’s going on inside her head. Is she consciously making her face impassive so as not to draw attention to herself? Is she building a silent resolve to always do the right things? Is she forming some kind of belief—as she watches her brother get under my skin—that it’s up to her to make me happy? Will this quiet moment on the couch impact her for many years to come? 

I swipe at a tear under my eye and worry suddenly about all the things I might be inadvertently teaching her. 

I was not unlike Norah when I was a kid. Eager to please and always happy to toe the line, I rarely crossed my parents or my teachers or my friends or anybody I came in close contact with. I often wonder if I was born with my don’t-rock-the-boat mentality or if I learned it somewhere along the way—if I made a conscious choice to be a peacemaker in my family. 

Once, in my early teenage years, our family was set to see a movie in the theater, but the plan was derailed because my sister—in early elementary school at the time—threw a fit about not wanting to go. Frustrated by the last minute change, I stood next to the corner windows in my bedroom and made a choice: I would not make a big deal about it. I would do my part to keep everyone happy.

In many ways, this personality trait has served me well. I am usually aware of the needs of others and keen to help if I can. I love harmony, and don’t feel less than when another person takes the lead. These tendencies are among my core strengths. 

If that’s the case, then what exactly am I so worried about? Shouldn’t I be glad Norah is able to intuit other people’s feelings? Shouldn’t I foster these gifts rather than worry about how her college therapist will help her unpack them someday?

A few months ago, Norah told her grandma she didn’t like to be called, “Nor.” My husband, Jake, and I were out of town at the time, so we missed the initial conversation and heard about it second-hand the day we got home. 

“Norah,” I said, “We’ve called you ‘Nor’ basically since you were born. Have you not liked it all this time?”

She smiled at me but didn’t answer my question.

“If you don’t want us to call you that anymore, we’ll stop. Do you want us to stop?”

She paused for a beat, still smiling and clearly a little uncomfortable with the attention. “No, it’s fine,” she finally said, which wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.

It’s a both/and situation isn’t it? 

I want our kids to be both aware of others and able to make decisions on their own. I want them to be both peacemakers, and willing to stand up for what’s right and true. I want them to both make wise choices and know that my happiness shouldn’t be tied to those choices.

I think about all this here in the hallway. My tendencies. My kids’ tendencies. The question of whether our family dynamics will nudge them down a path they wouldn’t have otherwise walked. I watch Norah flip a page and push her hair out of her face, and the question of nature vs. nurture suddenly seems less important. These kids are complicated little masterpieces with their own unique blends of strengths and weaknesses and personal bents. I don’t need to figure out why they are the way they are. I just need to see them and love them and help them to know themselves too.

In a few nights, this exact same scenario—3-Year-Old Refuses Bedtime—will unfold. I’ll be in the hallway again, but this time, all my kids will be awake and keenly aware of my frustration. At one point, Norah will walk over to me, wrap her arms around my waist, and say, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

I could take the opportunity to remind all the kids that our identities are not wrapped up in how we behave or that my love for them is not contingent upon the choices they each make, but there will be time enough for those big and small conversations the next day and the day after that and each day we’re given together. 

Instead, I’ll accept Norah’s hug. I’ll put my hand on the top of her head, wrap my other arm around her shoulders, and silently encourage her natural gift of compassion.

Molly Flinkman is a freelance writer from central Iowa where she lives with her husband, Jake, and their four kids. A lover of houseplants, neutral colors, and good books, she loves to write about how her faith intersects the very ordinary aspects of her life and hopes her words will encourage and support other women along the way. You can connect with Molly on Instagram or through her monthly newsletter, Twenty Somethings.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.