The Peanut Butter Spoon Incident

My daughter texted me the other night and asked if she could please call. I smiled and texted back, “yes.” Texting and phone calls have been a blessed way of connecting with my children when I’ve had to work late or when I’m hiding in my bedroom.

She called. I picked up. She started crying, telling me her brother was pressuring her to tell him something she didn’t want to talk about. She continued, “he won’t stop, and I don’t like it, not one bit. The worse part is, I feel weak when he keeps pressuring me like this.”

I froze. Not because this sibling rivalry was something to worry about, but because I understood this would be one of many times someone would pressure her to do or say something she didn’t want to do or say. The responsibility to help her work through this felt heavy on my emotional shoulders.

This isn’t the first time we’ve had a sibling rivalry text or phone call. Our favorite one is what we have titled “The Peanut Butter Spoon Incident.”

We were on a peaceful walk together, and just a few blocks from home when the phone rang. Derek answered and stopped mid-step. My daughter was crying hysterically on the other end. My heart stopped, worried someone’s arm had been chopped off. He tried to calm her down. I turned to walk-run back towards home. My husband stopped me, hung up and began to laugh. He finally stopped laughing long enough to tell me he thought the same about an arm. Or, worse, both of them being held hostage by a stranger. He then told me the “emergency” from our daughter’s perspective:

“(my son’s name) didn’t clean his peanut butter spoon. I told him he had to, and he refused and said it was my job since it was my turn to do the dishes and now he’s JUST STARING AT ME real hard.”

My daughter, as you may have heard, read or experienced, does not have a problem expressing how she really feels. I often forget she’s only 9 years old. She’s strong and wise. She’s fearless. When she told me she felt weak, I froze because I worried one day she would lose this beautiful ability to express her feelings, or worse, lose the courage to reach out for help when needed.

Despite their occasional fights about peanut butter spoons and the like, they get along well. We are blessed by these two.

It also brought up memories of my feeling weak and not liking it one bit either. The difference is, I didn’t know what I was feeling until much later in life, like in my 40s. I didn’t know I was feeling weak in middle and high school when I was told I needed to live and act a certain way or risk burning in hell for eternity. I didn’t know I was feeling weak when I didn’t get an “A” on a report card. I didn’t know I was feeling weak when I felt pressured by many in my life to get married the first time. Or that it was weakness I was feeling when I walked into my first therapy appointment. Thankfully, therapy helped me recognize this and many, many other feelings.

Instead, I thought something was wrong with me. I thought I needed to be different or better than what I was. I felt broken. And, worse, I didn’t know I could tell anyone how I felt because the few times I did; I was told I was wrong. I began to believe others knew best, and what they told me was what I should do, how I should feel or how I should be.

Most often than not, it was advice given, but never solicited.

I no longer believe in giving unsolicited advice, nor feel the need to take any given unless I want to. “Shoulds,” no matter what form they come in, are no longer a part of my belief system. I will admit I am not perfect at not giving advice when not asked for. Please forgive me if I have forgotten this with you.

I do believe in offering (and asking for) help, and that help is always defined by the receiver.

I knew the “I feel weak” incident differed from the Peanut Butter Spoon Incident. So, I offered help and told her I was sorry she was feeling this way. I told her it took strength and courage to call, to ask for help and to continue to say “NO” and not to give up just to make her brother go away. I told her it is never okay for anyone to pressure her in this way.**

Later that night we had a family meeting. My son told his side, with some valid points, I might add. My daughter listened to him and he to her. He apologized with tears of his own and explained how hard it is to be the big brother sometimes. They then came up with a code word. That word is “scatter.” If one of them says it, they know to “scatter” off to their bedrooms until everyone is calmed down enough to talk or until we, the parents, are available to help.

I don’t know if this new code word will work, because we humans rarely remember our well-laid plans in the midst of extreme emotions. It working, or not, isn’t the point. Building up the emotional strength not to cave under pressure is. It takes practice and I’m heck-bent on making sure my children recognize when the pressure is on and that when the feeling of weakness bubbles up within, courage always follows if they can hold on long enough for it to show up. And, when they can’t hold on, help is always near.

I also want them to know I am here to offer advice and help, but only when asked (and sometimes when not because I am their mom and they have to help around the house and to take showers and use soap. This often takes a little extra pressure).

I will close with a poem my daughter wrote the day after her feeling “weak”:

A galloping horse,
A beautiful chestnut color,
A golden field before her,
And a long journey ahead.

If found by a mankind,
They will break her,
Her beautiful color puts her in danger,
Her strength shall protect her, in any way.

When winter comes, it will be whisky cold,
If she finds a herd,
Let’s hope she does,
Before any man kind takes her,
Or
She freezes by the cold.

          -M.J. Wolfe


May mankind never break her, and her strength always protect her. And may “whisky” not make any of us cold, but warm on the inside.

Thanks for reading and sharing your story too. Until the next day, like this.

**Note: this differs from times in life when there are things we have to do, even if we don’t want to - like cleaning a peanut butter spoon.