"Why Does This Beautiful Woman Sound Like Mickey Mouse?"

And Other Reflections From My Daughter

Hello ♡,

Have you ever been surprised by someone’s feedback? This is a semi-regular experience for me with my youngest daughter, Emma. I don’t always know what she might notice, say, or think - and it keeps me on my toes. And, I am learning to let it teach me to stay soft, flexible, and open with others, but also with myself.

I recently cleared my work schedule to chaperone her class on a field trip to an art museum. We were talking about it for weeks before, excited to be together during the school day. As a mom, I live for these moments. This was going to be awesome, and the best. memory. ever.

The museum was beautiful, the kids were well enough behaved, and the bus ride was terrifying. (Just a bus on a highway never seems like a good idea to me, but luckily we are very close to the museum and so the ride was short.) We sat together on the bus with her best friend in the class. We got assigned our little group, and the tour guide for the museum was beyond delightful. She kept saying the museum “belongs to all of us,” and it was so lovely and welcoming.

We rode the terrifying bus situation back to the school after we wrapped up, and her teacher let me check her out early - which was Emma’s plan and hope all along. We did it, I thought. Starving, and dying to use the restroom, I was so relieved to get home.

We were in the kitchen together after we got home, and she said to me, “Mom, can I tell you something?” Of course, I said, with lots of therapist-mom annoying encouragements about how she can tell me anything. (I think I need to reign this in.)

She goes on to tell me how she really didn’t like how I talked to her group before we entered the museum - the moment I thought was fun, and I took a cute photo of them - the moment I went over the rules and said how. much. fun. we would have. “We are not preschoolers mom, you talked to us like we were babies,” she told me seriously, calmly, and with no dramatic emphasis. Oh no I didn’t realize, I reflected back. But she wasn’t done. “I kept thinking to myself, why does this beautiful woman sound like Mickey Mouse?”

Now before you get distracted by the “beautiful” comment, remember this child is diplomatic, and the point was the “Mickey Mouse” voice. She didn’t like it, and she needed me to know. We discussed this at length, with her elaborating, and I took the feedback about the better way to speak to children so grown (8 years old). Oh, and I also said something else on the bus she didn’t like. And yes, my blood sugar was low and I was overstimulated from the day (I have so much admiration for teachers), but if I am totally honest it bothered me and hurt my feelings for a minute. The list of things I had punted to make this work came back into my mind, and I thought briefly how I resented making this work if the outcome of all of this was that I had messed up.

But that’s where I caught myself - you see I didn’t mess up, that wasn’t even what she was saying - if I was really listening. She was educating me on her experience and preference, and I almost missed it because I got in my own head about my important work things and how it felt to hear this feedback. See that’s my own stuff, my own shaming narrative I layered on top of my daughter’s feedback. It wasn’t coming from her, and wasn’t the point.

I almost missed that she felt safe enough to tell me how embarrassed I made her feel, and I almost missed how empowered she felt to tell me that. And I almost missed how much closer that made her feel to me after telling me - how happy she was to be able to “get it off her chest,” as she described it. I almost missed how we were able to hold all the the things together - the good parts, the funny parts (picture kids pointing at nude statues), and the parts mom embarrassed her.

The internal narrative we have that causes us to miss each other is rarely premeditated, it is usually automatic - often instantaneous, rooted in our own stories about ourselves and what we can and cannot be, or what it means or doesn’t mean when we are imperfect in some way. These narratives often have an “all or nothing” quality to them. You see I didn’t want to be the “Mickey Mouse” mom on the field trip, that didn’t fit my narrow view of a successful mom day. I wanted it to be a “special” memory with no mess ups, because apparently special is…flawless? You see the problematic thinking here I am sure.

She later laughed so hard as she told the “big kids” (my two middle schoolers) how I sounded like Mickey Mouse, and we all laugh about it. It is hilarious, especially her description.

Any relationship can allow you to see yourself reflected back in someone else’s experience of you. And when the reflection has information in it that isn’t part of your pressure to get it right, it can sting, or it can be freeing. I use this silly, not very deep, example today on purpose, because sometimes it is easier to see the truth of this without something that feels so pointed. But even though it is hilarious, it illustrates this valuable wisdom from one of my favorite authors, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” Victor E. Frankl

I think to myself how much I want to create internal space, a pause, not for getting it perfect, but to notice the internal narrative I may be overlaying on top of a moment. This space, pause, and noticing allows us to choose - to be present to what is happening, or get lost in our internal “not good enough” narratives. When we pause and choose to not go with the harsh internal narrative we are offered a new alternative: Holding it all together, the good, the embarrassing, the imperfect. This is a freeing way to experience a relationship, and to experience ourselves. Let it all be true.

Emma said to me in the car recently, “Mom, have you noticed how I am getting more direct?” Yes, I told her, I certainly was. She was proud, and so was I. And I thought how wonderful it is to get out of the way and let her learn to use her voice, and how grateful I am to let it soften my internal narratives.

With you,

Monica