I’m more perceptive than you think.

I know that you only see me as I look from the outside – a five year old girl with curls in a pony tail, or a two year old boy in overalls. Or even just a chubby baby in a pram. But I still notice things. I see the look on your face, I sense the distaste in your voice, your vibes are full of negativity, they radiate across the food court, or through the café or around the K mart shelves towards my mum.

You don’t like the way she parents me. Maybe she shouted or maybe she swore or maybe she’s ignoring my whines. Could be she just picked me up off the floor mid-tantrum and dumped me unceremoniously in the shopping trolley. Could be she’s pleading with me to stop crying, could be she’s bribing me with chocolate or she’s given up and is clenching her fists as she tries not to start crying herself.

But here’s the thing. The way you stop and stare, the way you shake your head or tut, tut in annoyance doesn’t help. It doesn’t help her and it doesn’t help me.

Here’s what you don’t know. Last night I refused to go to bed, who knows why – maybe I was overtired, maybe I was feeling anxious about a change in our routine, maybe I’ve just cut out my day time sleep and I’m out of sorts, maybe I was teething, or maybe our neighbours played loud music until late. My mum was patient with me, she rubbed my back, she brought me a drink of water, she read me stories. And after I finally fell asleep, she still had to pack to the dishwasher, make school lunches and throw on a load of washing.

Maybe she had an assignment to do as well, because she’s studying part time by correspondence, or maybe she had to catch up on some work that she didn’t finish that day because she left the office early to pick me up and take me to swimming lessons. Maybe she’s a single mum, maybe she’s a stay-at-home mum, maybe she’s struggling to make ends meet or has post-natal depression or maybe she’s just found out she’s pregnant with my new little sister or brother. Bottom line is, she’s tired, she’s fed up, she’s reached the end of her rope.

And the truth is, I don’t know that much about what really does go on in her life – she shelters me from her problems – and besides, I’m more interesting in how fast my toy truck can speed across the kitchen floor, or what I’m going to take into class for news tomorrow.

But you know even less about her life.

What I do know though, is this: There’s a better way for you to react to the situation you see unfolding before you. You can offer a friendly smile, a nod of support. You can step forward and ask my Mum if she’s okay, if there’s anything she needs. You can shrug your shoulders, throw your hands up in the air and laugh as you tell her, “We’ve all been there.” You could offer to pick up the shopping that spilled across the supermarket floor when I kicked over the basket – and if you see her bottom lip start to quiver, because it’s all become too much, you could reach out a comforting hand to touch her shoulder and tell her that it will get better.

Because it will – I won’t always throw tantrums, in fact I didn’t really mean to just now – but well, you know, I’m three, sometimes I can’t help myself. Or I’m 9 months old and I’ve decided it’s time for a feed, even though Mum just fed me twenty minutes ago. So I’m screaming, because that’s how I communicate with the world. Or I’m six and I’ve had a bad day at school, or I’m twelve and I’m pre-pubescent and I’ve just told her that I hate her so, so much, even though it isn’t true, even though I love her fiercely.

Regardless of what’s going, of why it is that she suddenly looks like the worst mum in the world when in fact she’s the best – please don’t judge her.

Take a step back, put yourself in her shoes and offer some compassion. She needs it, and she could probably use a cappuccino too.

Warmest regards,

A small noisy child

(Here is a picture of a small noisy child)