Butterfly Teacher Mom

Rupture, repair. Rupture, repair.

“You’re sweet to them but not me, like… it’s okay honey, we’ll clean it up,” she said mimicking a sarcastically saccharine voice.

Ouch. I remember having this exact realization as a child. Noticing that my mom was a kinder, gentler version of herself to others than she was to me.

I was about twelve years old when I first worked as an assistant in her preschool classroom. During my summers off from school, the preschool where she worked for nearly 30 years would hire me for their summer program and I would work in her classroom, adorably named the Butterflies. Everyone loved my mom, the Butterfly teacher. Parents would drop off their children, realize that I was her daughter and then proceed to gush about how wonderful she was. 

My first day in her class I was shocked as I watched my mom, the preschool teacher, in action. She bent to her knees and greeted the three year olds at eye level when they entered her room. If a child was upset when their parent was leaving, she would pick them up and walk them to the window so they could wave goodbye before sitting with them on the carpet to read in her lap until they settled. 

During circle time, she was endlessly patient. Reminding children to sit on their bottoms so their friends could see the story. She listened intently with eyes widened, giving encouraging nods as they recounted the visit to the zoo over the weekend or showed her their favorite stuffed animal that they brought to school for sharing time. Where was this patient, attentive woman when we were home? Butterfly teacher was not my mom’s default mode.  

Again from Mavis recently, “Why do you sound like that when you are with your friends?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Your voice is sweeter,” she responded. 

She went on to tell me again that she felt like I was nicer to her friends than I was to her. That night we had picked up slices of cake and gone to a friend's house to play. Before we left I had Mavis help clean up the toys they had taken out.

“You let friends leave our house without making them clean up,” she pointed out.

The next night, she remembered she had some cake left over and ran to the fridge. She grabbed the box and opened it as she was walking and started eating it. 

“Do you have a fork?” I asked as she grabbed pieces with her fingers, dropping crumbs all over the floor.

“Mavis!” I yelled, “You’re dropping crumbs all over the floor and I just swept. Get a fork and sit down! You’re not an animal.” My voice came out much more stern than I had intended. 

She set the leftover cake on the table. I watched as she dropped to her knees, quickly picked up the crumbs and walked over to the trash can to throw them away. Even with her back turned, I could tell by her hurried steps and posture that I had hurt her. 

I ran over to her, “I am so sorry,” I said “I majorly overreacted. That was an accident and it is easy to clean up and that shouldn’t have been a big deal at all.”

She kept her back to me with her arms at her side as I tried to hug her. Her chin was pressed down towards her chest as she cried. 

“I am so so so sorry, come on let’s go eat your cake.”

“I don’t want it anymore,” she cried.

I guess Butterfly teacher mom isn’t my default mode either. 

These outsized reactions were common for me growing up. I am a grown-ass woman and I still viscerally recall many occasions of feeling so flawed and small. Once when my dad was painting a wall in the hallway. My arm brushed the wet wall as I walked by; I was spanked. Being spanked or yelled at for minor infractions or expected childhood mistakes was a regular occurrence.

As a child it is difficult to navigate the dissonance of the parent that you love and adore being the one to cause hurt. Using physical discipline and calling it love. Although I didn’t inflict physical pain on Mavis, my words and their volume caused damage. I didn’t even really care about the crumbs, why did I react so harshly? 

Mavis settled down and we sat together on the couch where she stayed attached to me for the rest of the evening. It seemed like she needed to know that our relationship was still intact. I don’t want her to experience my love as conditional on her good behavior. I don’t want her to be afraid of getting in trouble when she makes a mistake. 

When we said goodnight she whispered into my neck, “I am not an animal.”

“No, baby, you are not an animal. That was such an unkind thing for me to say,” I responded.

Rupture, repair. Rupture, repair. This has been my mantra of motherhood as of late.

Adults apologizing to kids wasn’t something that was modeled for me growing up. I am working on taking a pause before reacting. Even just a moment and a breath can be enough to interrupt a mindless reaction and shift to a more thoughtful response. And when it’s not, I get to practice that apology again. Rupture, repair. 

I love that Mavis feels safe and secure enough to stand up for herself, even to her own parents. That wasn’t something that I felt like I could do at her age. I don’t want her to feel like everyone else is getting the best version of me while she gets the frustrated, tired leftovers or that I treat her friends kinder than I treat her. It isn’t reasonable to expect to be Butterfly mom all the time, I know that wasn’t a fair expectation of my mom either, but maybe the distance between home mom and Butterfly mom could shrink a bit.