There’s so much they’re not saying, even when they are screaming words.

This morning it was ostensibly about going to her weekly ‘Sunday Funday’ activity.  (First 45 min are dance; second are “art” which normally means making formations of candy connected by toothpicks.)

She couldn’t give a reason for why she didn’t want to go to this fun thing she usually looks forward to and has friends at.  But she was adamant that she wasn’t going.  She said she just wanted to be at home.

It would have been easy to let her stay home.  Yeah, we paid money to have her glue candy together half a mile from our house — but it was cold and I was still not wearing a bra and it would have been easy to  give in and let YouTube teach her how to play with candy (or old socks, straws and food coloring — you know, the usual) for the next hour.

I’ve given in before.  Last year she went to like three ice skating lessons.  She’s a homebody in general; so some of that is normal for her.

But some of it — I am learning as I get to know this complicated sensitive person who lives in my home and must be obeyed — is about something else.

It’s about how she feels in the world that day.

Does she feel loved, worthy and at ease enough to overcome her social shyness and go do an activity?  Does she have the proverbial pep in her step?

For the last few months since starting kindergarten, the answer has mostly been yes.  It’s been wonderful to see.  She comes home from school upbeat (so I hear from her grandmother and nanny).  She talks cheerfully about her friends in school.  She cruises into social situations she used to balk at.  She rarely resists going to school in the morning.

But today I heard a vulnerability in her protests that made me think (1) it was about something and (2) I needed to help her through it — instead of giving in to the “it” whatever it was.

So, naturally, I offered the best bribes I could think of.

We can get something cool at Michael’s after.

–Nope.

You can wear makeup (yes, she’s 5 — judge away, I gotta live my life).

–Nope.

We can go to Michael’s wearing makeup?

–No dice.

She was really clinging to whatever was bothering her.  When she turns down mascara, you know you’ve hit something deep.

But finally she budged.  She followed my lead down the path of “things that help us feel better” and asked me if she could wear her fanciest dress.

Of course, it’s totally inappropriate for a Sunday activity — really all activities — but I was so happy to hear her trying to help herself that I said yes without even thinking about fighting that battle.

It’s silver silk taffeta and sleeveless but why not, kid.  You already wore it for whatever thing it was meant for and if you fucking love it that much, go for it.

She RAN to her room to get dressed.  She still wanted the eye shadow and mascara and I couldn’t really lose the momentum towards the door over that shit, so she went out looking like Mariah Carey at the Met Ball and marched herself into a room full of girls in sweatpants and uggs.  Didn’t look back once.

When I picked her up 90 minutes later she had some bizarre turkey-shaped thing made out of jujubes and a big grin.  Didn’t seem self conscious at all about her ensemble — maybe she thought the pink Vans kept the look grounded.  Who knows.

What I do know is this.  The last thing she said last night before she fell asleep was that a girl in her class had been taunting her (same one from camp last year, of course).  And then this morning she seemed panicked about going to an activity she loves.

She just wasn’t feeling OK about being her.  She couldn’t summon up the gumption to go into a room full of kids when she was feeling so low and rejected.

And she couldn’t explain it.

That kid knows a lot of words but I don’t think she yet knows how to arrange them to describe that feeling.  The one we all have when we’re just not feeling good about ourselves.

So she asked, essentially, to hide.

Yes, we all have those days and those moments and sometimes we do need to hide.  But we also have some tools for those days and she should have them, too.

I can still remember my first favorite dress.  I was also five.  I wore it for my birthday celebration in Kindergarten and I wanted to wear it every day after that.  A simple white knit dress with red roses and green leaves.  Definitely short sleeves.  I legitimately have trouble remembering things that happened a week ago but I don’t think I will ever forget how great I felt in that silly dress.

29 years later, I always know which items in my closet to reach for when I’m feeling less than.  And I’m not too feminist or too proud to admit just how good it feels to slip on that perfect black blazer . . . that I definitely don’t wear every week, sometimes maybe more than once.

(By the way, nothing actually “slips” on when you’re a 12.  It’s more like I gradually shimmy the sleeves up my arms until they’re on and then I pray they won’t tear — but you know what I mean.)  Its definitely a tool I have in my arsenal when I need that extra ounce of “I’m OK — I can be a person today.”

So she has her dress.  The first one.  That she has figured out how to reach for when she’s feeling less than.  So that she can get herself out the door and dance and make fake art projects with other kids and remember that many of them like her — even when she’s dealing with a bully.

We were able to talk about the situation later.  We discussed some things she can say and do the next time whats-her-face strikes (5 year olds can say “go pound sand” without getting a phone call home, right?)

We talked about why bullies act the way they do and when I suggested that maybe what’s-her-face isn’t feeling loved or good about herself, this amazing little person said “I feel sort of sad for her if she’s so sad, even though she is mean to me.  I hope she will feel better.”

This kid.  Who still wears pull-ups at night and stomps her little feet and wails about going to Sunday Funday.  She can’t yet find a way to say “I’m feeling vulnerable.”  But she can empathize with her own bully.  And if getting to that place starts with wearing an insane dress to school or Sunday Funday, fuck it.

That’s a battle I am happy to lose.