Bad

"What did you say?" I asked Isaac.

He had muttered it so quietly that I almost hadn't heard. He was curled up in bed and we were saying our final good nights. I had just finished reassuring him that I always loved him, no matter what -- no matter if I was frustrated, no matter if I was angry, no matter if I yelled.

Getting him started on bedtime tonight was rough. I had decided that we really needed to play in the yard in the evening, since the 100-degree day had been too hot for us to go outside, but of course after we played it had gotten late and I had ended up hurrying Isaac along. The more I rushed him, the more he dawdled.

How to get him to bed? I tried making a game of it; I tried logical consequences; I tried threats; I even tried shame in the form of suggesting he wasn't big enough to play outside after dinner. And, of course, I yelled.

Eventually the drama was over. After the teeth were brushed, the pajamas were on, and the bedtime story was finished, I brought up my yelling and apologized for it. He suggested, not for the first time, that I should just try asking him to do something in a "nice voice." This made me feel both despicable and defensive. I pointed out that when I had asked nicely he hadn't cooperated. I started to say "You made me angry" but changed it to "I felt angry." I talked about making a deal: I would try not to yell, he would try to respond to what I was saying.

The discussion didn't reach a resolution, but at this point I could tell he didn't want to talk about it any more, although I felt he was still unhappy about the yelling. That's when I told him that I always loved him, no matter what -- even if I yelled.

And that's when he said something in response, half-muffled by pillow, that I almost didn't hear.

"What did you say?" I asked Isaac, my heart breaking.

He refused to repeat it, burrowing his head further into his pillow.

I asked, "Did you just say 'Even when I'm bad?'"

He had.

- - - - -

We had another discussion, although my short answer was YES. Yes, no matter what you do, no matter how bad you are, I will always love you. But it was just as important that he know that he is not, in fact, bad. We've been working hard to convey to him the point that every single person makes mistakes, and that mistakes are okay.

So I tried to explain that people aren't bad just because they have done a "bad" thing. He asked questions and I tried various reassurances, but I wasn't sure he was following the good-people-can-do-bad-things argument. So I turned the tables.

"Is Mama a bad person because she yelled at you?" I asked him.

I knew then he understood because he looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, smiled slyly, and said, "Yes."

I kissed him good night.