We are at T-7 days here until school starts. And while I had an awesome, tremendous summer with my kids, I think we are all ready for some time away from each other.
Tonight, my daughter exploded like a water balloon filled with liquid nitrogen. I know, from my self-imposed limited chemistry education, that you probably can't put liquid nitrogen into a water balloon. But let's just say you could. You manage to 1)gain access to some liquid nitrogen and 2)pour it into a cute little pink water balloon. Let's pretend the water balloon also insulates your hands from the cold the liquid nitrogen puts out (shshshsh!! Stop your brain from thinking right now, science people! We're PRETENDING) so you can hold the balloon in your hand and it's all soft and round and squishy and makes you happy, just to look at it.
Just like my daughter does for me, most of the time. Just the fact that she exists gives me this warmth down deep in my belly, a strange sort of amazement mixed with pride that I even had a part in her creation. Even if I hadn't--even if she'd been dropped on my doorstep one morning...most of the time, I am honored to be allowed in her life, and all I can think, when she is crying in my arms because she doesn't ever, ever want to get too big for me to hold, is "Oh, Lord, please don't ever STOP wanting me to hold you."
Then something happens. She wakes up tired. She misses her dad. She's bored. I told her to do something she didn't want to do. I was on the phone too long. I wasn't feeling well so I didn't play ponies with her. Most of the time, her anger stems from something I did or didn't do. She once told me, "I get mad at you because you're supposed to be my perfect mom."
(Yeah, I know, pretty cool she could verbalize it, huh? But still...)
She can be the happiest girl in the world and then I say "no" or tell her to finish her breakfast or answer the phone when it rings and BAM! It doesn't matter that I've been carrying her around with love and gentleness for the last few days. No matter my honest attempts to soothe her, to give her space, to catch her before she falls...she explodes. Unfortunately, she doesn't just spew standard H2O all over me. That, I like to think, I could handle. Water doesn't hurt.
My daughter, my liquid nitrogen water balloon, hurts. She's very, very good at it. Tonight, after exploding at the mere mention of cleaning her room, she called me a "mean mommy." A "witch." She said, "I hate you!" "I wish you would disappear!" "I don't love you!" "I want daddy!" "I don't want you to ever be with me again!" "You're a BAD Mommy!" She also called me a "dumb bitch," but I absolve her of that, since I know exactly where she got that one (sorry, Lady in the Camry in traffic....but really....turning left from the right hand turn lane? Even my fourth grader recognized it as Not A Good Idea.....)
Last month, my doctor burned off a wart on my thigh with a dab of liquid nitrogen on the end of a q-tip. A tiny amount. But it burned and stung and blinded my brain for the barest millisecond. I was thankful I didn't come into contact with the stuff on a daily basis.
Lately, my daughter has been burning and stinging and blinding my brain on a daily basis.
On a good day, during a relatively good week, I can handle it. I can look her in the eyes and tell her I love her, no matter what. I can turn away and let her rage at me and tuck the pain and burning away as inconsequential. I sense it coming, like the way I could sense thunderstorms growing up in the Midwest. And I prepare myself, as best I can. I remind myself she is full of liquid nitrogen, not just water. And I put on what I think of as my emotional HazMat suit.
On a long day, I can't sense her fear, her anger, her disquiet. I can barely sense myself. I can't find my own center, and I usually can't find my emotional HazMat suit. So, on long days, like today, in the middle of an even longer, worse week, when she explodes.....and she inevitably explodes.....I explode back.
We ended the day with her putting herself to bed. It wasn't so much punishment as self-preservation. For her and me.
The bad news is, the liquid nitrogen-filled water balloon doesn't fall far from the tree.
The good news is, tomorrow is another day. I do love her, and I like to think she knows that. Most of the time, I get my emotional HazMat suit on before I risk carrying around my little liquid-nitrogen-filled water balloon on a day when life plays hell with our schedule or she wakes up with that certain frown on her little face.
Most of the time, I like to think, I do OK. Even if I'm not the perfect mom.
