Celebrating the Pouty Bucket Heads

A conversation with my two-year-old niece:

“Maddi, what are you doing?”

“I pouty,” she says.

“Wanna come and eat?”

“No, I too pouty,” she says.

A conversation with my sister:

“Sometimes it’s scary how much Maddi is like you,” my sister says.

“Yeah, crazy how much she looks like me.”

“I’m talking about the stuff she does,” my sister says.

A conversation with my two-year-old niece:

“Maddi, what are you doing?”

“I pouty,” she says.

“Wanna come and eat?”

“No, I too pouty,” she says.

A conversation with my sister:

“Sometimes it’s scary how much Maddi is like you,” my sister says.

“Yeah, crazy how much she looks like me.”

“I’m talking about the stuff she does,” my sister says.

My sister has brown-red hair and green eyes. Maddi has blonde hair and blue eyes. And me? Yep, blonde hair and blue eyes too. Maddi is my mini-me in many physical respects, but emotional?

Maddi is sometimes so pouty that she can’t even function. I told her once to stop climbing up the changing table, so she stepped down and lay on the ground as if the world had crushed her. I  picked her up and brought her into the living room because we were all heading out. She lay in my arms as if dead—head flung back over one of my arms, legs limp over the other. What can I say? She is a sensitive child that feels things deeply, especially negatives.

Me? I confess it’s true. When my feelings are hurt, they become the sole thing I must tend to. I used to be ashamed of how sensitive I was. Everyone was always telling me to get thicker skin, but does anyone actually know what that means or how to do it? I would end up berating myself every time I felt hurt by someone else. Now, I guess I’m starting to see my sensitivity for what it is—just a part of me.

I’m also starting to see the beauty in being sensitive. For compassion flows from those who know how easy it is to be hurt. And in my line of work (working with children who are often battling a lot of pain themselves), the knowledge that the slightest word or look can crush a spirit is vital.

Being emotional also holds something else great. The lows are low, but oh, how the highs are high. Maddi reminded me of this, too. The kid put a plastic bucket over her head the other day. Then she walked around the room giggling as she bumped into things. When she bumped into a person, she said, “Knock-knock bucket head.” You then were required to knock on top of her bucket. She’d take a peek to see who it was and laugh even harder.

So yes, I am a sensitive person, and yes, I need to remember that often I am hurt but the person that hurt me didn’t necessarily mean to. But I also need to be ok with how I’m wired. The world may not like that I cry easily (although I don’t see what’s so wrong with crying), but it’s time to enjoy my sensitivity and not be ashamed of it.

With that in mind, I just ask that you go ahead and knock-knock my bucket head next time you see me. Hee-hee-hee.