When my son Max was four he went to pre-school at a small private school in Boulder, Colorado, the school was nestled in the outskirts of town with a playground that enjoyed a full view of the Flatiron Mountains. It was there that I learned what remains one of the best pieces of parenting wisdom from his then teacher, Mrs. Magowan.
She was as black as coal with a voice rich like honey and her way with the children was so beautiful that the smallest of gesture could bring tears to my eyes. Her kindness toward my son was for me as important as the oxygen I breathed. That was the year his dad and I split up for the second and final time in his short life.
Max and I were both in transition. I, in my newly single mother status, had returned to work and he, in his dual house living environment, probably felt much like a rubber doll, pulled by each arm and in danger of splitting in two.
In the beginning leaving the house for school was a chore—Max often would forestall the imminent separation by absorbing himself in everything but dressing. And I, in all my new job importance, would race around much like a drill sergeant barking orders and hollow disciplinary warnings.
It was temporarily awful.
By the time we packed ourselves into the car we would be exhausted and more times than not our emotions would ride with us for the short few miles to school. As I remember it, my inner critic would perch herself on my shoulder and vociferously list the ways I was failing my son. Max for his part would stare out the window as if willing himself to be anywhere but in his car seat in a car with his working mother. By the time we pulled into the circle to say goodbye, like clockwork my sweet boy would begin to cry begging me not to leave. Battling my own tears of frustration over our new work/life situation, I would park, and escort him to his classroom.
It was one of these mornings that Mrs. Magowan saved us.
As soon as we crossed the threshold into her room, she noticed the mood we blew in with, pure defeat. While placing her hand on his back she raised a finger from her free hand as if to say—hold on, let me get him settled and then—let’s talk.
I watched as she took a knee, my breath near to bursting against my lungs, willing myself not to cry.
First she whispered, his eyes previously trained on the floor lifted and met her gaze, his shoulders stood up, then, much like the sun breaking over the horizon, a smile spread across his tear stained face. She took him in, nodded and for a moment stayed there as if pausing to let his new mood settle over him. Then she pointed and his eyes followed her fingers direction to a basket containing blocks across the room. With a brush stroke of love across his back he was gone, scampering toward something he could build, thoughts of being left dissolved.
She stood—and there in all my unkempt rawness I uttered these words:
“How do you do it Mrs. Magowan, you are so patient, you repeat yourself over and over again day in and day out and I have never heard you as much as raise your voice.”
She took my hand in hers, offering me a steady long look, her dark eyes providing pools of kindness I could dive into.
“Oh yes. Here is the thing dear, I never know the first time a child is going to hear me—so I ask myself, what do I want them to hear?”
You never know the first time a child will hear you—so what do you want them to hear?
“You are brilliant, truly and indisputably, brilliant.” I told her with a squeeze of her hand.
I vaguely remember her giving me some reassurance that letting go of the inadequacy I was steeped in was well within my power, such sage advice.
Twenty two years have passed since that morning, I have shared Mrs. Magowans wisdom with countless others—I only wish I knew where she was so I could thank her for anchoring me in the constant quest for patience and a desire to have the words my children hear be filled with love: what a gift.
Note: I was inspired to share this story about Mrs. Magowan after reading the equally heart breaking and poignant piece on Babble, written by Samantha Ettus, called, Overheard at Disneyland. In it she shares her observations while resting on a bench at Disneyland, sadly she is in a sea of anger–anger that is doled out onto the psyches of children. If only every parent had a Mrs. Magowan in their life. Children learn what they live and we owe it to them to be raised with the best we have to offer.
What a lovely story. In your defense, all those years ago, I think sometimes it’s easier to be kind to a child when he or she isn’t yours…I remember too how my somewhat clingy daughter would be calmed by the other adults in her life who weren’t as agitated by her behavior at any given moment as I could be.
Thank you Sharon…your words remind us that it takes lots of loving people to bring up a child…and aren’t we all better for that! Thanks for reading and commenting too.
What a halting story and a reminder of the way we enrich many moments going forward because of the ones we regret. Constant works in progress we parents are, but I’ve learned that children don’t remember a lot of these transitional morning moments the way we do, if at all.
Oh how I agree with your comment Susan…regret tends to ride around much like an unwanted passenger yet as you so succinctly put, more times than not children, who weren’t constantly made a target of anger, do not remember those transitional morning moments. What the other writer I referenced wrote about troubles me though, I have observed what she described in her post, little children being shaped by unsettling anger, anger that left unchecked has great potential to breed unease, distrust and sadly more anger…may all parents be fortunate enough to have muses in their life that help them to slow down, breathe and re-frame the words they choose. Thank you for reading and for your comment.
Elin, what a beautiful story and how lucky to have a Mrs. Magowan in your life. I do agree with Sharon’s comment that it’s sometimes easier to be gentle with a child who’s not yours because there’s less emotion involved and less that’s so deeply invested. Regardless, we should all take Mrs. Magowan’s wisdom to heart and remember the power of words before we let them flow carelessly out of our mouths and into the delicate psyches of our loved ones. Thanks so much for the reminder. xo
Thanks Lois. xo
Elin… This is so beautiful. I love Mrs. Magowan’s words. As Lois pointed out, how wonderful to have a Mrs. Magowan in your lives – we should all be so lucky!
I know you taught for years Edee, no doubt you are that Mrs. Magowan in someones life.
I have been amazed at the talent of some teachers to put children at ease, regardless of the child’s anxieties. Not all teachers can do this. But definitely she was a real gift to you and your son at that point in your lives. Nicely told story.