The other day I was talking to James while Edie sat in the bath. Oh, I remember what it was, it was Tuesday, and James had mentioned taking Edie to see Santa. Like, take her just him and her. This was after the two most hellish days with Edie--frequent and intense melt-downs. And, now, to "help me out" James wanted to take her to see Santa. And I was mad. Like, really mad.
Why don't you take her to the grocery store. Or pick her up from school? Or try to make dinner while she tornados under your feet. That would help me out. Why do you get to do the fun stuff? That doesn't help me.
And I was right, and mad, and that's a bad combination for me, because being right makes me madder.
And I wasn't yelling but I was mad and it was in my voice.
And I heard Edie in the bath calling my name. And I heard her stand up, unprompted, and pretend to be the Statue of Liberty. And she said the whole poem, "Give me your tired, your poor . . ." which I taught her and am always asking her to do. She said the whole thing, loudly, clearly, without the prompting it usually requires.
Because she was trying to distract me. And I was right and I was tired and I was worn out and I was mad, but behind my anger I could hear a voice telling me be careful, Valerie. Be careful with her heart. And the more I think about it the clearer that voice gets.