The fighting between them commenced as soon as they got in the car, and I settled the argument justly. In this instance, her brother won out and she sat in the back sulking. I playfully tickled her leg to try and crack a smile, and her anger resulted in a swift kick on my arm. The mood drastically changed in the car, the temperature turning an icy degree of cold. And the anger that she felt was transferred to me as she forgot she was even angry and continued on like nothing happened. There was no apology, despite my clear words that she had hurt me. Nothing. And I seethed as I carted them from point A to point B as usual, to make them dinner as usual, to do everything for them as usual while they took it for granted.

Nevermind that she is just a child. Nevermind that my mood was already shot by a friend taking her anger out on me once again. Nevermind that she had simply chosen the wrong time to cross me, and as the adult I should have taken the opportunity to teach her that the right thing to do in this instance would be to apologize, and that no matter how angry she felt or how unfair she thought I was being, it was never ok to touch me with the intent to hurt me. I was not in that place of being the adult. I was tired of being the adult.

We got home and I told her that she could do her homework in her room. I did not give her an explanation, I just told her to go. She was surprised, but acted like I was just giving her a suggestion for a good place to do her homework. She gathered her things and casually asked me where her journal was. I silently got it out and placed it just barely in her hands. She fumbled with it and then bounced up the stairs to her bed. I could hear the bedsprings creak from her weight just above my head in her upstairs room. I took out the meal I had slaved over the night before, the one they had barely touched, and warmed it up in the microwave. I made sure that they each got the foods that they liked and I skipped the foods they didn’t like, making each plate look drastically different to appease their separate appetites. And I put each plate at their place on the table, setting it with a fork and a napkin. I called them down and gave them each the look, daring them to turn their noses up at it. They didn’t. Kids have the amazing ability to know when they can fight and to know when they better keep their mouths shut.

Dinner ended and my son asked for an Otter Pop for dessert. I let him. I would have let her too, as I wasn’t going to be completely immature (a little immature, I admit, but not completely), but she never asked for one. Instead she just cleared her place and went back upstairs to finish her homework.

She’ll wait for me to come up and be the adult. The child in me wishes for once she’d get it that sometimes I need her to come to me and say she’s sorry first. But I know that right now she needs it from me more. She needs me to have the talk with her, tell her why I’m angry, tell her I love her, and that it hurts my feelings more than it hurts my body on this rare occasion of hurting me physically. She needs me to sit next to her on the bed, my arm around her, letting her know with my embrace more than my words that nothing she could ever do could ever make me love her less. She needs to know that even when I’m angry with her I love her. And only then can she tell me that she’s sorry. And until I come up there and make the first move, the stubborn girl in her won’t let her back down, and she’ll continue to act as if nothing’s wrong because she knows it’s making me seethe even more. And the stubborn girl in me will sit here thinking about all I do for her, how much I have sacrificed for her, and she obviously hasn’t a clue or an ounce of gratefulness with the way she is acting towards me. And more than anything, I can’t help but witness how alike we are. And I swear I’ve seen a similar version of this same argument several times about 20 years ago.

I think I’m ready to be the adult again.

Email me at winecountry.singlemom@yahoo.com