We are often embarrassed or shamed into silence. Here is one mother's stance and promise to find her voice and help her daughter find hers as well.
Life Parenting

Sh*t Happens Next Door: Finding My Voice as My Daughter Finds Hers

We are often embarrassed or shamed into silence. Here is one mother's stance and promise to find her voice and help her daughter find hers as well.

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By Ashley Lamb-Sinclair of Beautiful Junkyard

Last week my daughter and I went to TJ Maxx and I, big and pregnant, had to pee upon arrival.  We went into a two-stall women’s restroom, and I could smell immediately that it was occupied.  But Mama had to go—deviled egg smells be damned. Nina, being a typical two-year old, didn’t seem to notice or care.

I took her into the stall and suddenly, from the next stall over, came the sounds of a person who has clearly eaten the wrong kind of lunch.  Nina, yet again a typical two-year old, shouted with surprise, “What is that?”  I shushed her, but the noises continued and Nina kept inquiring.  The lady from the stall over, with serious strain in her voice, answered her, “Honey, I’m taking a sh*t.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.  And I’ve wondered lately why I didn’t.

There is much about the world that Nina doesn’t understand right now, and I think overall my husband and I are pretty good about explaining what we can to her in a no-nonsense way.  But the incident in the public bathroom made me realize that there is still quite a bit that we sugarcoat or avoid or just plain lie about.  But if she is honest enough to be curious (as all toddlers tend to be), then why are we not brave enough to quench her curiosity?

She knows what pooping is; she tells me within minutes when she’s done it herself.  So in this case, I don’t think I was hiding anything from her.  I was trying to avoid embarrassment for myself and for the lady in the stall over, which I guess was the polite thing to do.  But why are we more concerned with etiquette than we are with truth–especially when it comes to our children?

I’m not implying that we should sacrifice the feelings of others in order to be blunt with our kids, but what harm would it have done for me to say something like, “It’s the lady in the other stall.  She’s not feeling well.”  Would that have crossed a line?  Considering how the lady herself answered Nina, I’d say she probably would have been okay with it.  In fact, I think that I might have embarrassed her more by ignoring Nina’s questions and prolonging the awkwardness.

I think it might be better to face the truth together with children than to ignore their inquiries and leave them feeling yet again like the world is one big unanswerable question that they’re too small to navigate.  Being able to ask a question derived from authentic curiosity and receive an honest answer from those she loves will surely mold my daughter into a more confident woman than having to run out of a bathroom with our heads down because we’re afraid to address the reality of smells and sounds right in front of our faces.

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What has truly stuck with me from this incident is actually much bigger than dealing with awkwardness—I silenced my daughter. Don’t get me wrong, when she’s screaming like she’s got a bet on a longshot in the Kentucky Derby for no real reason and Mama needs an aspirin, girlfriend gets shut down. But my daughter asked a real question about the world around her, and I chose to shush her instead of help her understand.

I can’t tell you how much of my life has been spent avoiding asking a question because I was afraid. Or because I was anxious. Or even because I was curious. Even worse, I’ve spent so much of my life stifling my own words—questions and opinions—that I am having to teach myself how to embrace them.

Just recently, while on a trip to D.C., I was alone in a cab with a driver who apparently believed we were traveling in the Sahara because the air conditioning was blasting frosty air right at my face so hard that my hair flew back and—ahem—something else on my upper half stood up too. I had a dialogue in my head for a good twenty minutes, while my body temperature lowered somewhere near hypothermia—Just ask him to turn it down! You’re paying for this ride! Why can’t you just ask for what you want? I would like to tell you that I finally choked up the words, but by the time I talked myself into it and had put on every item of clothing in my carry-on including wrapping a couple of Kleenexes around my knees, we pulled up at my stop. I paid the man in silence and thanked God for 90 degree weather when it hit me in the face.

I suffered quietly rather than asking him to turn down the damn air conditioning.

But it actually wasn’t very quiet. My brain screamed at itself. And this internal screaming is often what I walk around hearing all day long. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I really want to tell you… I really didn’t like it when… I have debilitating conversations inside myself all the time—I perpetually have a shitting woman in the stall next door whom I can’t ignore.

I want my daughter to confront her world. I want her to ask questions and expect real answers. I don’t want her to ride in suffered silence—I’d rather she make herself comfortable and not allow others to make her miserable.

Because this life is one long cab ride, and it’s our job to eventually learn to take the wheel.

A version of this post was originally published at Beautiful Junkyard.

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About Ashley Lamb-Sinclair

Ashley spends her time writing fiction and stealing ideas from the talented young writers she teaches in her high school English class. She currently lives in Louisville, Kentucky with her bearded husband, two feisty daughters, an angry chihuahua and a sad bassett hound. You can find her sometimes at Beautiful Junkyard or on Twitter.Â