a GRRRR mommy moment.
It hurt.
In the moment, I imagined it as a tiny number six bear trap slapping shut, piercing white hurt through the layers of my forearm. Shit!
I looked down at him, his tiny three year-old hands, nails digging into me, breaking the skin. I heard his frustrated screaming. I imagined the bear in me screaming. Damn hunters. Damn angry three year-olds. But he was my son. I gave him a good swat on the butt - my son - I hadn’t thought about it. I walked away.
Caught. Panicked. “Stay in your room until you are calm and sweet. Mommy doesn’t want to spend time with little boys who hurt her. Mommies play with sweet little boys.”
Face stinging with guilt, breast an anxious blue bird flutter, hand dreading its misbehavior, I stalked back to the kitchen and padded left and right in front of the stove. He was in his room.
He was screaming. He was in shock, little bear. Him or me?
“Calm and sweet,” I called in my best I’m-in-control voice. Joke. It was more of a plea for everyone to find quiet. Times like these come in sudden shots of wind – blow right through us, our house, carry away our reservations like loose leaves. It takes mommies a minute to find their loose leaves.
There is quiet. I’m in front of his door, having flown there in search of my parental-state-of-mind. My arm is purple from his sharp snare. Poor bear. Him or me?
“Calm and sweet?” Yes, I am. I stand against the door, the tree between the gaze of a hunter and the prey. I wait.
“Yes, Mommy. Come in, please.” There was such a hug like you’ve never seen before - bear hug, a sorry hug. Kisses for bruises, for sore bottoms.
Forgive me.
“Mommy was frustrated, wasn’t she?” He nods. “Mommy can be a real bear when she gets frustrated, huh?”
He kisses me and pats my hair. “I’m sorry, Mommy.” There are tears on his pink face, tears like raindrops.
“Mommy was wrong to pop your butt. I’m sorry, too. It was not right. I should have used my words, huh?” He nods and strokes my hurt arm with his softest paw.
A beast and boy reconcile, perfect friends, wounds forgiven.
In the moment, I imagined it as a tiny number six bear trap slapping shut, piercing white hurt through the layers of my forearm. Shit!
I looked down at him, his tiny three year-old hands, nails digging into me, breaking the skin. I heard his frustrated screaming. I imagined the bear in me screaming. Damn hunters. Damn angry three year-olds. But he was my son. I gave him a good swat on the butt - my son - I hadn’t thought about it. I walked away.
Caught. Panicked. “Stay in your room until you are calm and sweet. Mommy doesn’t want to spend time with little boys who hurt her. Mommies play with sweet little boys.”
Face stinging with guilt, breast an anxious blue bird flutter, hand dreading its misbehavior, I stalked back to the kitchen and padded left and right in front of the stove. He was in his room.
He was screaming. He was in shock, little bear. Him or me?
“Calm and sweet,” I called in my best I’m-in-control voice. Joke. It was more of a plea for everyone to find quiet. Times like these come in sudden shots of wind – blow right through us, our house, carry away our reservations like loose leaves. It takes mommies a minute to find their loose leaves.
There is quiet. I’m in front of his door, having flown there in search of my parental-state-of-mind. My arm is purple from his sharp snare. Poor bear. Him or me?
“Calm and sweet?” Yes, I am. I stand against the door, the tree between the gaze of a hunter and the prey. I wait.
“Yes, Mommy. Come in, please.” There was such a hug like you’ve never seen before - bear hug, a sorry hug. Kisses for bruises, for sore bottoms.
Forgive me.
“Mommy was frustrated, wasn’t she?” He nods. “Mommy can be a real bear when she gets frustrated, huh?”
He kisses me and pats my hair. “I’m sorry, Mommy.” There are tears on his pink face, tears like raindrops.
“Mommy was wrong to pop your butt. I’m sorry, too. It was not right. I should have used my words, huh?” He nods and strokes my hurt arm with his softest paw.
A beast and boy reconcile, perfect friends, wounds forgiven.
posted by J.Helen Shaw at 7:12 PM
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