a true story about daily transitions
The Cookie She Couldn't See
I shut the door behind me, and through the crack I watched her watch it, waiting for it to open again.
the realization
Nobody talked her out of missing me. The sitter just sat down beside her, facing the door too, and waited with her. That's the thing I keep forgetting at goodbye. She doesn't need me to convince her she's fine. She needs someone to stay in the missing with her.
I shut the door and then I couldn't make my feet go. So I stood there and watched through the crack. Awful, I know. But I had to see her.
have you ever felt this way too?
The sitter did everything I would've done. Toys. A cookie. Big bright smiles. And Mia just kept checking the door, harder each time, like if she stared at it long enough it would open. The cookie sat in her open hand the whole time, completely forgotten. She wasn't sad about the cookie. She was watching for me.
Then the sitter stopped trying to cheer her up. She sat down on the floor beside her, facing the door too. 'You're watching for your mommy.' Not a question. Just true. 'When her shoes are on, she comes back. We'll watch together.'
Mia still glanced over at the door. But her hand found the cookie. And her other hand held on tight to the sitter's sleeve. Nobody talked her out of it. Someone just waited with her.
what I found myself saying
"You're watching for your mommy. I see it."
"When her shoes are on, she comes back. We'll watch together."
"You can miss her. I'll wait right here with you."
