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Article "Head Chatter"
The loudest voice is the one in our heads. It chatters non-stop, saying this or that thing, not usually helpful and often misleading.
It says we're fat, not enough, far from perfect and 'slow'. It tells us things we'd rather not hear. We clamp the mouth of this voice in hopes of not passing it along to our children through our own. Some of us learn the voice is no soothsayer. Others of us live our lives as if it were real.
When we have children, the voice can turn icy. It surprises us just when we've been lulled into a false confidence that we've finally grown up and out of its clutches.
Just the other day I heard that voice as loud as ever, basking in its own omniscience like a lighthouse in the fog. It said "If your daughter isn't doing well in school, it's your own fault."
My daughter is a self-motivated learner who rarely seeks my help. Therein lies the dilemma. I actually want to help someone who doesn't need it.
We had our first parent-teacher conference of the school year this week. I truly care about my daughter's education. Doing her best supersedes being the best, and I tell her that the important thing is that she learn. She almost always brings home good grades. But what if she didn't? What would my voice say then?
I was anxious as I waited for my turn to chat with the teacher. The door swung open fifteen minutes late. Fifteen minutes to fret that somehow I wasn't good enough simply because the teacher might say she has issues with my kid.
"So I hear you and Sophia are writing a few books together," she began. I turned my head slightly, leaning forward in the tiny chair. My coat rustled.
"Well...I've been telling my kids stories about Mr. Heart and Mr. Head, and how Mr. Head always wants what he wants when he wants it. Meanwhile. Mr. Heart acts as his guide, asking him if that's such a good idea. It's a way of teaching my kids right from wrong in a fun and unobtrusive way..." I felt I was rambling already so I sat back and waited.
The teacher raised a brow. I inhaled.
"It's working. Sophia is such a delight to teach!"
I felt the limits of the chair beneath me as I caught the edge of the desk.
"Really?" I couldn't help squeaking. Scenes of our mother-daughter combat earlier in the week flashed before my mind's eye. My daughter had blocked me like a car accident on the highway.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," she had said as she kicked her head back in despair. I tried everything to explain to her in a level, rational tone why there is no hyphen between the words snow and sun. Finally, I left the room, teary-eyed and desperate. She wouldn't let me help her. She had always eagerly listened to me during homework time until this very day. It had been a new experience for me.
The teacher shuffled a few items in front of her. The rustling brought me back to attention.
"And I told your daughter how lucky she is to have a mom like you who is so interested in her homework."
I could feel the tears crawl up the orbs of my eyes. This teacher, nay this woman sitting before me had kids of her own. We locked eyes.
"Really?" I repeated in a whisper. I felt like the student, only with a bigger butt.
"You mean I don't need to do flashcards and administer sample tests to my daughter like my friends are doing?" My head chatter had curled back in surprise. It waited, seemingly aloof, yet ever watchful.
The teacher looked at me wide-eyed.
"Certainly not!" she said. "She's a smart girl, and she'll find her way in the world. Just you wait and see."
I swallowed hard, picturing Sophia in a glossy cap and gown. How many tears would pave the way to that day? The head chatter recoiled at my inner sense of triumph.
The teacher's words muzzled the voice that day. As I walked down the darkened hallway of the school, I could feel the embrace of Mr. Heart who knew a muzzle was a very good idea indeed.
(c) 2006 Christine Louise Hohlbaum