Dear Elli,
You're dealing with mean girls this year at school. Really shitty little human beings. And every tear you shed is breaking my heart into a million tiny pieces.
I'm heartbroken because I can't stop them. You cried tonight before bed. And as you sobbed you asked me, "Why don't they like me, Mommy?" "Why are they mean to me?"
I don't know, baby girl. I don't know why those girls don't like you. I don't know why they're mean.
When I was little like you, I had trouble making friends, too. And some kids were mean to me. I remember going to my mom, sobbing. Asking her the same questions. I remember how sad she looked. How angry. And now I know exactly how she felt.
I hate those little shits, and there's a shameless side of me that would love to pick them up by their throats and slam them against the wall a few times. Make them cry like you cried tonight. But that won't solve your problem, and I don't want to go to jail for assaulting a couple of seven year olds.
I think the thing that hurts the most is that I cannot shelter you from the world's painful side any longer. You're no longer living the life your dad and I created for you. This is your life now. This is the real world.
There are countless beautiful people in this world who will make life so freaking fantastic that it takes your breath away. People who will amaze you with their kindness, their grace, their generosity, and their courage.
But ugly people reside here, too. And they hurt us sometimes. They hurt me sometimes, even today. Their words hurt, and their actions hurt even worse. They try to rob you of the most important thing you possess. Your joy.
We all eventually find our own methods for dealing with the ugly side of the world. Some ignore it entirely. Some rage against it. Some laugh at it. Some unfortunately become victims of it. And worst of all, some become it.
It's my job to guide you through this. To help you figure out your method of dealing with the ugly parts of the world. To make sure you find your way.
I'm so afraid, though. I'm afraid for the sparkle in your eye when you smile. I'm afraid for the sound of your belly laugh. I'm afraid for your uninhibited hugs and kisses. I'm afraid for your joy.
You don't want to ignore these girls. You don't want to fight with them. You don't want to laugh at them. You just want them to like you. You want them to be your friends.
I hate that more than if you punched one of them in the nose and laughed all the way to the principal's office. That would be much easier to deal with than the tears running down your cheeks and soaking into your pillowcase at bedtime tonight. So much easier than the genuine heartbreak I heard in your cry.
I promise you several things tonight. I promise that kids will like you. Not all of them, but a lot of them. And I promise you'll make friends. The hurt you felt tonight will be a distant memory in the not-too-distant future. But most importantly, I promise you will get through this.
Please don't let anyone, or anything, steal your joy. It's the most amazing thing you possess, and it belongs to no one else. It's yours. Only yours.
I love you.
Mom
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