Dear Hildegaard

Mr. Rogers, anger, and oranges

Dear Hildegaard,

I have been trying to teach you how to say, “I’m sorry.” You were finally able to say sur-ee this afternoon, and quite proud of yourself for it. Although I am still waiting for you to use it in the right context, like after you accidentally hit me in the eye with your plastic hammer, or intentionally hit me in the eye with your plastic hammer, but these things take time and training.

I, too, am practicing when to say “I’m sorry” in the right context. 

Sometimes I say it to protect myself. I don’t want to disappoint or upset anyone, so I try to pacify them by saying “I’m sorry,” almost preemptively. I don’t think this is a healthy use of the word. Because it isn’t really about being sorry for a wrong done as much as it is an attempt to shrink - to take up less space - in the hopes that I won’t be regarded as a nuisance. I lived like that for a time, to survive, but I don’t want you to live like that, ever. 

You are never a nuisance. You are a stinker, sometimes, that’s for sure. But you never need to shrink to be loved, or cower to be accepted. Your dad and I smile when you take over an entire room with your joy, and we understand when the whole house sags under the weight of your disappointment. You take up space, my love. Keep taking up space. Fill our house with everything you are, and the Church with exactly who God made you to be.   

Sometimes, you will need to say the words “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry…” that I hurt you. “I’m sorry…” that my words were cruel. “I’m sorry…” that I accidentally broke your favorite toy. One of the worst realities in life is that we hurt each other. Sometimes we mean to and sometimes we don’t, but it’s important that we vocalize our regret. This is for the other person, but also for ourselves. It is good to admit - out loud - when we are wrong. Good for our souls, thirsty for humility in a dry and prideful land, and good for our hearts, which need the reminder that we are not perfect, only Jesus is. 

I had to apologize to you yesterday. I was huffing and puffing around the house after getting off the phone with a customer service agent whose lack of help made me want to climb a tree. I took my frustration out on your dad, and then continued to boil under the surface until I noticed that you had noticed. In your baby way, you walked over to where I was sorting through old bills (and by sorting I mean sighing loudly while pushing papers around) and looked at me with serious eyes as if to ask, “What’s wrong, Mama?” 

I paused to assure you that everything was okay. “I’m sorry,” I said to you and your dad, and you walked away, content with my answer. But my anger didn’t leave. I wasn’t quite sure what was causing it. Sometimes I can’t trace the feeling to its true source unless I take a minute to ponder. You might ask, in all your toddler wisdom: why does it matter what is making you mad? Isn’t what you do with the mad that matters? And you make a good point. Sometimes introspection is just needless navel-gazing but, other times, it helps us locate the source so we can name it and tackle it head on. Maybe there is a solution, maybe not, but knowing why you’re angry is a good place to start. 

Mr. Rogers used to ask his audience of children (and their parents): What do you do with the mad that you feel?  Our anger doesn’t usually go away when we pretend to smile. And if we push it down or try to hide it, that only works for a little while. It is bound to bubble up somewhere, and sometimes the way it bubbles over is the reason we find ourselves having to say: “I’m sorry.” 

It takes adults years to figure out what to do with the mad that they feel, and I can’t tell you I have it all ironed out. I just know that it’s important to speak it out loud, and to make sure that I don’t hurt others in the way I express it. Doing something productive sometimes helps. I scrub the kitchen cabinets or start the laundry. Maybe you could play with your playdough or bounce up and down on the bed. Other times, we need to express our feelings by talking to someone, or writing, or reading quietly, to calm our hearts. You will find what works for you, and your Dad and I will do our best to help you figure it out.

I love you. 

P.s. Don’t forget to eat oranges in the winter.   

Cover image by Steve DiMatteo