Her: "Mommy, can I have a milkshake from Sonic on the way home?"
Me: "No! Where did you ever get that idea? What did Daddy let you do while I was gone?"
Her: "But I WAAANT ONE!"
Me: "Sorry, kid, that's the way the ball bounces." (God, I hate me.)
Her: "I'll show you! I'll take your things away."
Me: "You don't get to do that. See, I'm the mommy. I'm in charge."
Her: "Well, I'll sit in your spot at dinner, then. You won't be able to sit there."
Me: "Okay."
Her: "And I'm going to mad at you for TEN WEEKS."
Me: "But Daddy's birthday is in less than ten weeks. Are you going to be mad at me on Daddy's birthday?"
(I stifled a grin.)
Her: "Well, maybe not on Daddy's birthday. But I'm going to be mad for the rest of the ten weeks."
We pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, me walking, her thumping.
Her: "I'm going to throw something."
Me: "Don't throw something. Stomp the floor. Really hard. But just the floor."
As I unloaded the car, I heard her stomping. I went out to get the mail. I saw her through the glass door. I smiled at her.
She glared at me, her face stone. She raised a fist at me, shook it symbolically, unsmiling, and turned away. She was totally serious.
Me: "Baby Duck?"
She looked over her tiny shoulder, tossed her long hair, and stomped off, little shoes echoing in the late afternoon.
She was really mad. Not preschool tantrum mad. Personal mad.
I felt ostracized by her anger, shut out, made "other." I tried to rise above it, to reassure myself this sort of display is developmentally appropriate, to intellectualize the experience.
It didn't work.
I sat outside on the step, mail in hand, and put my head on my knees. It's been a hard week, coming back from travel, and I'm getting my ass handed to me on a daily basis at work. I didn't need this from my kid, my girl, that little creature who's supposed to always love me.
She didn't come.
After a few minutes, I picked myself up, as mothers do, and walked inside. She sidled over.
Me: "Do you feel better?"
Her: "Yes. Stomping helped."
Me: "Yes, it frequently does."
Her: "Do you ever stomp at work?"
Me: "Yes. I usually go in the bathroom, though, so they don't see me stomp."
Her: "Would your boss get mad?"
Me: "Yes, bosses don't like stomping."
Her: "Do you ever cry when you're mad?"
Me: "All the time."
Her: "I'm not mad anymore."
Me: "I'm glad."
Then she reached out her perfect hand and took mine, and I wished it would always be this easy to make up. I'm not sure I'm ready for this new personal kind of anger.
