Great! Here I am, trembling with outrage, again…
Impatience, lack of self control, anger,
all tangled up in running away.

My youngest daughter and her health homework,
which wasn’t spoken of when I asked, hours ago.
And, a particularly sensitive subject for her,
relationships with friends.

She says she doesn’t have any good friends.
It’s a diva-dance we’ve been through before,
when she’s feeling sorry for herself or put upon
by life. Don’t I know the feeling…

I suggested she use past experiences, she
scrunched up her face, with that look I hate,
total emotional stubbornness. I talked louder,
explaining, she had the answers in her mind,
that she was making a ‘cause’ out of the subject.
Crying. Red-faces, hers and mine. Time-out,
with proscribed silence. Soon, a muttered comment,
“I don’t know the answer.”

Again, I gave her the tools to find what she needed,
inside. “What about Deanna? The picnic lunches
you would take on your adventures? The sleep-overs?
How you both gave each other toys of yours?
And, when you would go to the river with them?
And the softball game.” Oops, I knew I made a mistake.

Forehead scrunched, eyes half shut, mouth obstinate.
“She was so bossy, Mom.” Funny, that is what she says
her friends tell her. Her face grew craftily puzzled.
“I never went with them to a softball game!” she
proclaimed. She did. I remember, because it was in Clifton.

Again, she rejected my help, the type of help that will
help her grow. The whooping half-faked cries re-started.
Again, my voice rose in frustrated anger. I had to get out.
I grabbed my composition book, and told her
I expected her to finish her homework, not to move
from the chair until she did. And, I went into my bedroom,
to calm down, to write it out. Not to stew, to think.

About twenty minutes later, I heard her door close.
came out of my room a few minutes later, opened her door.
She was lying in bed. I asked if she finished her homework,
she said she had. I said that was good, shut her door gently.
Then asked my husband, who had been at the computer,
if he had helped, he said no. I looked at her single page
of homework, could barely read what she wrote, but
saw she had answered all the questions.

I went back to her room, told her I might need to
get her up earlier the next morning, to redo
some of the writing, so her teacher could read the paper.
She said she knew, and it was okay. Not a good
first effort at turning impatience into kindness,
or anger into self-control, but, I didn’t expect myself,
or my kids, to change overnight. Yesterday was better,
tomorrow, I’ll try harder.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 3/21/05