"There are holes in my applesauce!" and Other Childhood Delusions

So that's Ayana's new thing--reducing herself to tears over these supposed applesauce holes. I'm less interested in the fact that she sees holes (I've long been aware that my child sees the world as if through Picasso glasses) than I am why she's so distraught about them. What's the big deal?

It's a question I ask myself a lot these days.

Apparently, the answer is everything. With Ayana, everything is a big deal.

And because I'm one of those hippy dippy new age parents who believes in positive reinforcement, I spend a lot of my time trying to put a positive spin on my daughter's propensity to make mountains from the hills of moles. And then bury those mountains in applesauce holes so she can start fresh.

To be sure, her flair for the dramatic is an exhausting trait. It's hard to watch the love of your life fall off the horse.

Or the cow, as it happened on that particular day.

It's hard for my rational adult mind to grasp the sincerity of her disappointment over, um, pumpkins?

Now, I'm not an idiot; I understand that the obvious benefit to having a child who feels things with intensity is that she feels all the things with intensity. Her applesauce valleys might be deeper than the average kid's, but her peaks are peakier. She is capable of the kind of unabashed happiness that makes her face do this:

and this,

and one of these

or these,

and sometimes this.

So yeah. It's obvious her drama is photogenic. But is it worth anything in the long run? 

I guess I like to think it's my job as a parent to make sure it is. When I made the choice to be a parent, I signed up to enable her to be the very best version of herself. And in my mind, that doesn't mean changing the parts of her that are too intense for my taste--that means teaching her to capitalize on her intensity.

Obviously, that's theoretical at this point. Right now, the best I'm doing is shaking and shaping her applesauce until it's got a nice smooth surface. This, when I'd rather just roll my eyes and tell her she's delusional. And to be honest, I'm only doing that because if I see her fall into hysterics over it one more time I'll lose my damn mind. 

But kids aren't the only ones who see things that aren't there. I see an Ayana who isn't there...yet. I see a beautiful, confident woman who is brave enough and strong enough to feel how she feels. I see a woman who won't bury her emotions because the world (or worse, her parents) told her to. I see a woman who isn't afraid to laugh like a hyena or cry like, um, Ayana. 

I see a mom who will understand that first haircuts are hard

and eating oatmeal can be tough.

I'm not that kind of mom--I really and truly don't understand the depths of her agony. But I'm hoping it's enough to be interested. I'm hoping it's enough to show that I care, even when I'm not 100% sure I do. And with those efforts, I'm hoping I'll enable her to be the kind of mom I'm not. 

As they say, if you can't beat them, join them. I can't beat my daughter--not in any sense of the word; I am no match for her intensity. But, one bowl of applesauce at a time, I'm trying to join her. It might take me awhile to get in touch with the weepy part of me, but I am working pretty hard on my howl face.