Smarter

I have four daughters. I think they are amazing. They are amazing. Yesterday, my youngest came home, walked through the door and sobbed. Fat tears, choking sobs causing her whole body to shake.

She called me names today. I did NOTHING. I didn't even sit in her seat. I didn't talk to her. She told EVERYONE I called her names. I would never call her names.

I called the school, spoke with the principal. This has been a repeated problem. I wanted to call the girl's parents.

Teach your children some freaking manners! You're raising a bully!

But I didn't. Instead, my daughter and I took a walk.

Mom, I pray for her. Every night before bed and in the morning. I pray for her. For her to be happier so she wants to be nice. I hate that this happens but it's making me stronger, right?

My twelve year old daughter is smarter than me.

Me? I have held grudges. I have played the victim. I have been vindictive.

Sigh . . . the student has become the teacher.

Thank God.

She came home today:

Today was great. We compromised. My friends and I get the back of the bus in the morning, she gets it in the afternoon. The principal said if we didn't find a way to resolve this, he'd assign seats. I didn't want the whole bus punished because of her and I. So we made a plan!

I vote for some select 7th grade girls to run for President.

I never wanted to compromise. My way or the highway! They usually chose the highway.

I want to be my daughters when I grow up. Or maybe, as someone said to me, they each have a part in me. I have to have those qualities to instill it in them.

I need to be more aware of them, I guess.

And I will never forget how a 12-year-old, cheeks still stained with her tears, taught me what it means to be a grown-up.