Leave it my kids - yes, kids plural - to spend the entire month of September trying to hammer a simple lesson into my thick head.

Before the lesson, some context.

After a frenetic, busy summer, we got a jump on Labor Day by welcoming John Thomas "Jack" Sarvay into our family on September 3.

In short order, our world changed dramatically. (This should come as no surprise to anyone who has had children.) The simple addition of a new personality into our home has been a major change. (We were smart to time Jack's birth with the start of first grade, a busy window at work and a need to add a bedroom to our house.) It's impacted all of us differently, and I've been reminded in significant ways how introverted and crabby I get under the stress of significant change. 

A few weeks after we brought Jack home, Thea threw a small fit about something that pushed my buttons. She stormed into her room and slammed the door (Hello, teenage years!), and I promptly stormed after her and opened her door.

For a long moment, I found myself channeling my own dad. "Do not ever slam your door!" I exclaimed. "Get off your bed right now, and get over here!" 

Thea grabbed something off her bed table. It was a paperboard Floricane coaster with a quote on it. She thrust it toward me from where she sat on the bed, and scowled.

It stopped me in my tracks. I suppressed simultaneous reactions - laughter, shock and amazement.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked, trying to regain my footing.

"You know exactly what it means," she responded.

She was right. I did.

"Meet people where they are, not where you want them to be" read the coaster.

Hoisted. Petard.

"It means that you need to come here and talk to me, not make me come to you to talk every time," she continued.

And I did. I went and sat down beside her. She curled into my lap.

After a moment, I said, "The way I was acting didn't feel very good to me."

"Me either," she said.

"What can we do next time to keep from getting so angry at each other?" I asked her.

"I don't know," she said. "Can we think about it later?"

"Sure," I responded.

Nothing beats having your lack of awareness thrust into your face by your six-year-old. No, seriously. It was an amusing and painful moment of truth for me - delivered at a time when I truly needed it.

Since then, I've turned the interaction over in my mind again and again - when I am huddled in a far corner of the house at four a.m. rocking a screaming three-week-old; when I am feeling completely swamped and behind at work; when Nikole drags herself out of bed at absurd hours to nurse Jack; and when Thea and I slip back into tug-of-war.
 

• Where am I right now? What am I feeling?
• Where is the other person right now?
• Where do they need me to be at this moment?
• Am I able to meet them there?