This week, the prompt is reach.
She is so filled with anger and frustration sometimes. Things seem to bother her more than I think they should. She doesn’t want her picture taken. A trip to the doctor is previewed with threats of what she’d like to do to them if they try to give her a shot. Some days she orders me around like I’m a servant in the house of a tyrannical goddess. Sometimes I just don’t know how to reach her.
I handle her as calmly and logically as I can, trying not to get caught up in her drama. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t yell and rage sometimes too. I do. Sometimes the sickness is catching. I dole out discipline like morning vitamins, though the latter are more willingly received. Each day closes with cuddles and expressions of love.
“Just take my hand,” I want to say “Walk with me.”
I pull her into my lap, her log legs draping over the side like an overgrown puppy. I marvel at how big she’s gotten, this little child who used to fit on my knees. The one who didn’t sleep for a year and baptized me in baby spit up nine or ten times a day. Now she talks about when she’ll leave home, or uses it as a threat sometimes hoping it will tug at my heart strings. I want to run away, to keep from being hurt. But that was what I signed up for, even if I didn’t know it, when I gave birth to her. No matter how she hurts me, I keep reaching for her, communicating how much I need her and want her in my life.
(Ok, so technically my five minutes are done but I wanted to add a brief caveat. This is a tiny snap shot into my life. My daughter is an amazing, vibrant little girl who is capable of much love and kindness. But as any mother knows, no one can hurt you quite like your kids. This is meant to express the times when it can be hard to love our kids, not a reflection of every interaction with my daughter. Please don’t misunderstand, I love her and I have much hope for her future).
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