Funny, since starting my journey to respectful parenting, I'm far less horified to hear my mother's voice coming from my mouth (rarely even hear it anymore) than to hear MY voice coming from my *children's* mouths. Those moments that stop me short as I incredulously ask myself, "Did I SAY that?" or "Do I sound that awful??". Apparently, I'm not noticing the early signs before I hear those things coming from my kids, but it is definitely a 4-alarm warning when I do.
Then, too, its nice to see those positive reflections-afirmations that we *are* on the right path and we are definitely making progress. Today, as I rushed upstairs to get to Storm's side as he awoke crying for me, I hurried too fast and slipped on the stairs, banging my shin pretty good. I made it up to the bedroom and as I leaned on the bed dealing with the pain, Wyl asked me what was wrong and since I explained to him what happened in a strained voice, I guess Storm didn't hear me, because he asked me several times after I told Wyl. I finally got the point across to him that "I hurt my leg" and he *jumped* out of the crib and dashed out the door before I realized he was out of the crib. I asked him where he was going-he was by now out of the bedroom, and he came back to open the door and tell me, "I going to get a bandaid". I heard him dig around in the drawer, shut the drawer, shut the bathroom door and after he shut the bedroom door, he stood there by my side, his little 3-year-old fingers struggling patiently with the tricky, tiny pull-apart wrapper, carefully handing me each side of the paper wrapper, struggling mightily with the coverings of the sticky part-trying ever so hard not to touch the pad that covers the wound (did he learn that just from watching me??) and handing me those parts to throw away... and handing me the bandage to put on myself. I was struggling to hold back tears at this gently, thoughtful gesture. Bandaids make his boo-boos feel better - he had just told me that the night before as he put one on a scratch himself. Here, I had not been expecting my respectfulness to be repaid (at least in care-taking ways) until I was nursing-home age or otherwise incapacitated, unable to care for myself... and yet, here it was; proof (however small) that respect isn't just something you give out to your kids, it comes back to you full force in unexpected ways.
I love these little moments.