No, I don’t want to go. It’s too dark. My husband and I glance at each other, puzzled. Our oldest daughter refuses to go on the Winnie the Pooh ride at Disney World. I remind her that she happily went on the ride two years ago, but she shakes her head and calmly tells us that she would rather wait outside with her aunt and infant sister.

It’s the end of the day and the girls decide that we should ride It’s a Small World one more time. We hop in the boat and I watch the girls hold hands, sing the song, and point to all of sights. I notice that every once in a while they look at each other and smile. I sit behind them, happy to watch their experience rather than create it.

She wants two books, not just one. I tell her that it is late and we have time for one book, but she insists on another. I tell her that she needs to pick the book quickly because it is almost time for bed. She doesn’t want to pick just one book. She is frustrated and her voice is getting louder. There is stomping, pleading, and then there are tears.

As soon as I hear the cry I know this might take awhile. Most of the time she can handle disappointment, but today is not one of those days. I know that a good night’s sleep will help, but she is unable to understand this. Right now she is having a tantrum.

My initial reaction is to recite every thought in my head – you know we only have time for one book, you must be tired, why are you so upset? After a few minutes I realize she can’t even hear my voice – she is crying too loud.

Then frustration kicks in. I think to myself – you are too old to be crying like this, I need to get back to work, I don’t have time for this, maybe we won’t read books at night anymore! I think threatening thoughts because she seems out of control and it is making me uncomfortable. I want her to stop.

Her cries are loud and my threatening thoughts are about to come out of my mouth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I know that this tantrum is an emotional release and it is probably not about the book. It is probably about any number of things that happened during the day and the book was the last straw. She is tired, her tools are gone and her emotions are on the surface. I think about earlier in the day when I was frustrated with my computer, cleaning up the kitchen and trying to make lunch. She asked me a simple question and I promptly snapped back – I can’t deal with that right now can’t you see that I am busy making lunch! I did not cry at the top of my lungs, but I did overact to something quite simple. I can relate to what she is feeling right now.

I decide to pick her up and carry her to her bedroom. I put her in bed and I sit on the floor. I say to her, you are safe, I am here. I relax and I skim through one of her books. I do not talk to her or look at her, I am just there. I allow her to get whatever she is feeling out of her system and I try to remain a calm presence in the room.

The cries seem to be slowing down – not quite as loud, not quite as frequent. I wait until I hear only sniffling and I look up at her. She is staring at me, not quite sure what just happened to her body. I ask her if she is feeling better and she nods. I ask her if she is ready to read a book now and she quietly says yes.

After the story I put the book down and ask her to tell me about what just happened. What were you feeling and how could I have helped you? We talk about sadness and disappointment and how it feels inside of our body. We talk about how healthy it is to get it out, and we talk about other ways to release it. She says she likes to scribble pictures or roll around on the floor. I tell her that I like to go for a walk or talk to somebody that I love. Her eyes look exhausted but she seems to feel heard and satisfied because she has a slight smile.

As I am leaving she asks me if we can read two books tomorrow night. With a smile I tell her yes and I start to close her door. As I am about to walk away I hear a faint, thanks mama. It’s amazing what one deep breath can do.

My middle daughter reminds me of Ferdinand, the title character from the children’s book by Munro Leaf. It is about a little bull that is expected to turn into a fierce fighting bull, but he prefers to sit under the cork tree and smell the flowers. Mother Cow sometimes worries about Ferdinand because he always sits by himself under the tree, but when she checks on him to make sure he is not lonely, she realizes that he is completely content in his stillness. She allows him to be who he is.I want to allow my child to be who she is, too. I think about Mother Cow when I find my daughter alone, deep in thought in the middle of a busy day. She will be active for awhile, but as soon as I can’t find her I know exactly where she has gone. She is sitting in her room, most likely in her bed with all of her comforts – her books, animals, dolls, blankets. She might be reading a book, daydreaming, or otherwise lost in her thoughts.
She is different than her sister. My oldest daughter thrives on constant movement and activity. If she is not interacting with someone she is still experiencing them by closely observing their every move. She seems to derive energy from the outside world, an experience I can easily relate to.

Although I have yet to udder the words, “why don’t you participate like your big sister?” the sentence has gone through my mind. When I start to go into “compare” mode, I realize the person who needs the adjustment is not my daughter, it is me. When I start to feel unsettled because she is doing something that she is perfectly content with, I realize that it is time step back and do some inner work.

I appreciate that my daughter enjoys the quiet moments. She stays up late to enjoy the still and quiet house and she wakes up an hour after the rest of the family. Every morning she wants to sit on my lap and have a long hug – this can be a challenge when I am running around trying to get ready for the day. She enjoys the company of other children her age, but she doesn’t seem upset when it is time for them to go. She has two invisible friends that travel with us when we go far from home. When we return home she talks to them on the phone – she hands me the phone so I can tell them that they are missed and let them know they are always welcome in our family.

She smiles at people and she is nice to the people she meets. Not by my insistence, but because it comes naturally. She likes to quietly look out the window when we are in the car (but when her older sister is in the car they will laugh, argue, or sing along with the music).

Recently I signed her up for gymnastics, but after two weeks she decided she didn’t like it. At first I was annoyed, frustrated at her lack of “desire” to participate, but she was calm when she told me “no thank you, not right now”. She seems to know her interests, and right now, gymnastics is not one of them.

Some say she is a typical middle child, but I refuse to label her in anyway or allow that to define her. What I know for sure is that I want her to feel confident, content, and happy. I know that we cannot “tell” children how to be content (do this, say that), this has to be found within their own skin. Contentment and confidence come when children know and like themselves and feel accepted for who they are. If they find contentment by seeking other people’s approval, it will be fleeting. It may seem to work for awhile, but really that creates a constant struggle to work toward someone else’s expectations.

At a very young age my daughter knows how to take care of herself and I not only need to allow it, I need to learn from it. Our go-go-go society can trick us into believing that constant activity and productivity are the only acceptable ways to live this life – we sometimes fail to appreciate the healthiness of balance – enjoyment of interaction and activity, then stillness so we can experience some quiet moments.

I realize that every day my daughter offers me an opportunity to spend a few quiet moments with her. She craves comfort and connection when she gets out of bed and she seeks my assistance. I now make time for the long morning hug. I breathe with her as she shows me how to sit beneath the cork tree and enjoy the smell of the flowers.