“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves—say rather, loved in spite of ourselves.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
Yesterday, I got really angry at my daughter, Grace. I had told her to stay on the sidewalk and not keep walking on the berm of snow. Which apparently meant it was a good time to walk on the berm.
That’s the part where I got angry and told her she was going to write lines about doing what she’s told when she got home.
We were actually parting ways — she and her brother, Liam, were heading back home with Wendy and I was going to meet them there later. When I finally got home, she had finished her lines. I was able to go give her a hug and a kiss on the head. She was able to tell me something funny she had just read.
She should have listened. I should have reacted more calmly than I did. It’s nice to be able to show Grace that I love her even when she makes mistakes. And it’s nice to know that she loves me when I make them.
It’s easy to love Grace and Liam when they’re impersonating the happy kids from Currier & Ives prints. If Victor Hugo was right, and it feels like maybe he was, it’s even more rewarding to experience the way that love continues even when they don’t listen and I overreact.