Wherein I consider beating up a first grader.

Margot is almost two. Which seems old, I know. In our tiny world -- the one where she used to not be able to roll over or even open her eyes that often -- Margot is so grown up. She dances and sings and is loaded with strong opinions. Just the other day while I myself was singing a little song, she took my face in her hands and with a grave seriousness told me, "No Mommy. Don't Do That." 

You forget, then, that they are still so small and unbroken. 

It all came crashing down to earth for me yesterday at the birthday party of one of the awesomest seven year olds of all time. I cannot yet imagine Margot at age seven, the things she will have seen and experienced by then, and how they will have shaped her. Seven is old, is what I am saying. And seven can be mean. 

This was the scene: The birthday girl and her friend (we'll call her T.) are squatting at a puddle, digging in the mud. Margot, my sweet, social, confident little girl, toddles up to them and says, "Hey guys! What're you doing?"

OK. Let's break this down a little bit. "Hey guys!" when uttered by one tiny girl in askance of two olders ones, without even the slightest worry of potential rejection, turns out to be the most heartbreaking phrase in the English language. Even before the girls had a chance to respond, I was wincing -- that little, hopeful, "Hey guys!" seems like such a risky move to hardened old folks like me.

The "What are you doing?" hurt, too. Margot asks Adam and I this question constantly. "What're you doing mommy?" "I'm reading you a book." To which she responds: "What're you doing mommy?"  It's hardly even a question, more just a declaration of her presence, or a way she's figured out to connect with us. She asks, we answer. It's a good system. Hearing her present this tic to the seven year olds, I knew she was approaching them as she approaches us: with the assumption that a friend is on the other side. 

So again: "Hey guys! What're you doing?"

And the little girl T says: "Uh. Waiting for you to move?" Crappy, sarcastic, mean. 

Now, in reality just a second flashed by. But in that moment, I hated that little girl. With everything inside of me, I hated her. A day later, I can see her as a whole person -- I'm sure is probably very sweet in her own way, or is super damaged by her terrible parents, or has a mean older brother, or is just going through a bratty phase or whatever. But for that breath, I had hate in my heart. 

I like to think of myself as a relatively even-keeled parent -- I don't think Margot is special, per se, or better than any other kid. She's special to me, obviously, but she's just a person who deserves to be treated with respect and kindness and all that good stuff, just like everybody else. I think what I learned in that moment, though, is that there is no such thing as an even-keeled parent. At the end of the day, I am her defender and if you mess with her, I will mess you up.

I mean, sort of. I didn't do or say anything to T. I still don't know what, exactly, would have been the ideal move coming from me, the grown up. Thankfully, the birthday girl stepped in. She responded reflexively to T's "Waiting for you to move," with a scrunch of her face and said, "No we aren't! Here you go Margot," and handed my little one a shovel.

Margot seemed to come away unscathed, though of course we'll never really know. I, on the other hand, am scathed, decidedly so. I can't believe this is just the beginning, that likely there are other people who will be mean to her, make her feel bad about herself, or doubt her mind, or make her feel small. I know she will survive all of this, changed, but alive and hopefully stronger. But me? Oh, it's gonna be a long road, y'all.