She loves me, she loves me not

Goose left us a little love note:

And inside:

I found it on my bathroom counter first thing in the morning, which means she had woken up early to work on it.  That’s a big deal for Goose.  She has always been my best sleeper—the first to ask to go to bed at night and the last to be dragged out in the morning.  Yesterday when I was picking up in her room I found the evidence: some loose crayons, a black color pencil and a mostly used up sticker sheet.  I love it when she does little things like this in secret, like the time she disappeared for the better part of an hour and I discovered her in her clean bedroom.  The room had been a disaster, so I knew it had been quite an undertaking for a six year old.  She even made her bed and organized her stuffed animals.  She did this without being asked and without seeking recognition.

Each of my children find small ways like this to express their affection—it always makes me smile and tugs a bit at my heartstrings.  But with Goose it’s different.

With Goose I’ve always joked that the terrible twos started at two weeks.  She was a needy infant and a demanding toddler.  Temper tantrums were her forte—kicking, screaming, making herself so red in the face you thought she might pop a vein.  She’s always had a rebellious streak, and I would swear she says no just to show that she can.

I tell people she’s the child God sent to make me a better mom.  My first two were easy—well, there were the health issues, but the emotional and behavioral stuff were nothing compared to #3.  She’s the one teaching me patience and restraint, forgiveness and how to work through the guilt and move on.  She is my refiner’s fire.  Often my inclination is to douse the flames—she pushes and I push back.  But I’m slowly realizing that when she screams “I hate you!” she really means “Please love me” and I try to reassure her this is so.

Now that I think about it, Goose has written love notes ever since she began writing.  Only she used to write the words backwards with the letters in reverse—a perfect mirror image.  We always thought this was a funny quirk, that maybe it had something to do with her being left-handed.  The letters always said the same thing or variations thereof, depending on who they addressed:  “I loves my mom.  My mom loves me.”  I’m wondering now if she didn’t use these for a little self-affirmation, Stuart Smalley style.  Did she look to her reflection for some reassurance that the little girl in the mirror was truly loved?

She doesn’t write in reverse anymore.  I suppose you could say that now she just knows better, but I’d like to think it’s proof of our progression—that we’ve come to the point where no matter what kind of day we’ve had together we can go to bed confident that the last petal we pluck will always be she loves me.