DAILY SNACK
Crying.
Real, pain-laced wails.
“Mom! Irene bit me!”
Stern words and a minute on the green armchair,
I stand in front and do not engage her.
She laughs and laughs.
Her brother never used to laugh.
So I settle for some scolding.
Then I comfort big brother and all is well.
Until a picture of a cookie in a magazine triggers peals of,
“Oookie, ookie! Iwanna ookie!”
“No. There will be no cookies. I’m making dinner.”
Her face goes bright red and there are tears and screams and the flinging of a little toddler body across the kitchen.
“Irene. Are you feeling upset?”
She nods.
“Are you disappointed that you can’t have a cookie?”
Breathing and nodding now.
“And you’re angry with Mom, right?”
Breathing, nodding and becoming less red.
“But we have to make supper now, so here’s a stool. Why don’t you help me?”
Thirty seconds later she’s happily playing with a new potato and a cheese spreader while I prep for dinner.
We’re like something out of a 1950’s sitcom.
Why can’t I always be this good?