My son has become a parrot on my shoulder. He repeats every word I say.
It's precious when he repeats, "I love you," or even better, "I love Cody." My heart balloons and I feel sure that he's developing empathy and self-compassion right before my very eyes.
It's not quite as cute when he repeats, "Oh sh*t."
Yeah. Oh sh*t. A few weeks ago, my son got ahold of one of our glass coasters -- the first mistake here was buying coasters made of glass -- and promptly threw it on the kitchen floor, where it shattered into countless shards.
Without thinking, I exclaimed, "Oh sh*t!"
And that was it. "Sheet, sheet, sheet" -- which is how my son pronounces it -- is all he wanted to say for the rest of the day. He even knew how to properly use it.
After losing a toy behind the couch -- "Oh sheet!" After tripping and falling -- "Sheet!"
I won't pretend it wasn't funny. My two-foot-tall toddler cussing, with a sh*t-eating grin on his face.
Maybe not my proudest mom moment.
I started paying more attention to what else he was repeating, and although I didn't hear any more profanities, what I did hear surprised me.
"Saww--ee," he said at the library last week. Where did he get that from?
Oh right, I'd just said sorry to a man who was standing in the way of Cody's empty parked stroller that we needed to roll out of there.
"I'm sorry!" I'd said, with a sheepish smile, motioning to the stroller, looking at the floor.
"It's OK," the man said nicely, as he moved out of the way.
And it was OK; it was no big deal.
So did I have to be sorry? Would an Excuse me have done?
This was a habit of mine, being sorry all the time.
Sorry for making you move, sorry for looking at you, sorry for making you look at me, sorry for laughing too loud, sorry for not laughing at all.
Sorry about my resting b*tch face, sorry about my child's crying, sorry about my child's childishness.
Sorry for nursing my baby in public, sorry he gets hungry, sorry I get hungry too and eat voraciously, sorry that's not ladylike.
Sorry for dressing down today, sorry for dressing up today, sorry for accidentally beating you to the line -- do you want to go in front of me?
Sorry for having a good day when you're having a bad day; I'll have a bad day, too, if you want me to.
Sorry for succeeding at something you failed at; I can fail, too -- just watch me.
I'm sorry for anything and everything that could possibly inconvenience you. I don't care what it is -- it's definitely my fault; it's without a doubt my bad. I'm embarrassed and ashamed. Forgive me?
Perhaps I'm exaggerating. Sorry for doing that.
In all seriousness, hearing my son repeat me -- seeing myself reflected in him and his foul, remorseful mouth -- made me think about what I'm communicating and what I'm not when I constantly say, "I'm sorry."
I don't matter.
I'm not enough.
I'm too much.
I'm taking up space that's not mine to take.
For starters.
I tried to stop apologizing when it wasn't necessary.
But habits are hard to break. My son catches me every time.
"Saww-ee! Saww--ee!" he squawks.
Sh*t, I think -- but don't dare say -- I'm doing it again.
Sorrys certainly have their place, and I want my son to learn when they're warranted (ahem, after bopping me in the head and laughing), but also when they're not.
I want him to know there's no need to apologize for being, needing, wanting what he has a right to be, need, and want in life. I want him to know he can be both polite and assertive -- that the two are not mutually exclusive.
My son may absorb this message from his dad, who says sorry so sparingly that you know he's in the doghouse when he does.
My son may avoid becoming conditioned, like I was, to over-apologize. He may be judged for what he says, instead of for the way he speaks. He may be taken seriously, despite unnecessary "sorry"s now and then.
But still, he needs to hear this. And he will, in due time. Because I think the next phrase we'll practice is, "Sorry I'm not sorry!"
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