She tends to be very set in her ways which leads to outward struggles for her and internal struggles for me. Everything from, how we do things to when we do things, has to be done the way that she learned it, or it simply isn’t right, period. Besides that behavior being difficult to parentally mentor, it hurts me to see her in a constant battle to make peace with things that most of us could just do without giving much thought. That is why a sweet little First Grade assignment called “How to Make Hot Chocolate,” gave me so much hope and nearly brought me to tears.
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“Did you pour the water in? Did you pour the water in? I need three marshmallows, did you remember the marshmallows?” She rocked back and forth in her chair mirroring the increasing force of her repetitious inquiries, a mixture of excitement over the treat she was about to receive and anxiety over the fact I might miss a step.
“I am working on it, patience please.”
“Did you make the water hot, hot enough to melt the chocolate? Not too hot though, I don’t want it to burn me. Is the chocolate milk chocolate? I don’t like the dark chocolate. What about the marshmallows, how many marshmallows?” She rocked further and further back, the legs of the chair smacking hard off the tile.
“The cocoa will be as close to perfect as possible, just be still please.”
“Is there going to be clumps on the top, or the bottom? Is it going to be warm enough to drink? Will I need milk to cool it off? Will the marshmallows melt on top? Mom? Mom? MOM!?”
As I walked carefully to the table holding her cup of cocoa I hoped that it was worth the moments of frustration for both of us. As much as I enjoyed the idea that we were about to make a notable memory together, I knew that it would likely end with her being disappointed, and me feeling regretful that my time and efforts did not live up to her unattainable expectations. She was used to Daddy making her cocoa, and once you pave the way for her, there is just no turning back. You own that concept.
Predictably so her cocoa craving smile soon turned to an emotional outburst as she realized that I simply could not and did not replicate Daddy’s cocoa. She wanted to like it, she wanted to not care that it was different, but she just couldn’t, she isn’t wired that way. Not only was she angry that she would not be having cocoa after all, she was genuinely mad at herself when no one else wanted it and she knew it would be wasted along with my efforts. I tried to pretend not to care, but it honestly did bother me, not because I took it personally, but because the more things she rejects as having multiple options, the less opportunities she is going to have in life. Our world just does not operate like that, people don’t operate like that, and soon I won’t always be there to hold her hand in life and inch her through her fears of trying something new.
I leaned back in my chair trying to remember it was just cocoa, hoping she would eventually do the same.
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It was the end of Christmas break and I was cleaning out our daughter’s backpack. Among a stack of “take homes” and holiday projects was a writing prompt labeled “How to Make Hot Chocolate.” I pulled it out carefully and began to read:
“1. First you ‘por’ the Milk
2. Next you put in the chocolate
3. Then you put it in the ‘mickerwav’
4. Finally you mix it in.”
I just stared for several moments, in near disbelief that the sheet in front of me could be her work. It was though, unmistakably, her handwriting and her doodles on the back. What didn’t make sense was the fact that those were not the steps we followed to make hot chocolate. Those were not the steps that our daughter would have written down, had someone asked me to wager a bet as to what she would have described.
“Chloe?” I called to her as she was putting her shoes on, getting ready for the bus. When she was finished with strapping her last piece of Velcro she walked over to me.
“Yes, Mommy?”
I got down on one knee and showed her the paper. She stared at me, her giant grey eyes reflecting her unknowing expectations.
“What is this?” I asked gently.
“Oh, that is my school paper. We had to write how to make hot cocoa.” She smirked a little. A wave of blonde curls springing into her eyes. I wiped them away and looked back at the paper.
“But,” I hesitated, trying to choose my words carefully, “this isn’t how we make it.”
“Oh, I know,” she said with a bounce in her voice. “This is how Miss Emily makes it. I drink it at her house this way. The package says you can use water or milk and heat it on the stove or in the microwave. She uses milk and the microwave. It is good that way too, it tastes like warm chocolate milk.”
A flood of emotions instantly came over me, though I tried not to make it obvious. As she walked away I looked back at the paper that now sat on my kitchen counter. The assignment that had an original intention to reflect the class’s knowledge of a simple process had reflected so much more in our girl. It reassured me that even though it might not come as easily or naturally to her, she did have the ability to grow and accept changes, that different wouldn’t always equal bad or scary, and that even though it will still be a long and challenging road, it will be one with many rewards along the way.
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