The violent storm crashed through our home,
causing it to be barely recognizable.
Overturned chairs, black dirt from an upended plant, a shattered lamp,
and ugly dents in the wall were left in its aftermath. I simply stood in the middle of the room staring
at the chaos, powerless to move, unable to process what had just happened.
This was not the first time such a wild tempest
had destroyed our otherwise peaceful home, but oh, dear God, please let it be the last! I love this little girl with all of my heart,
but I truly don’t know how much more I can take!
With increasing frequency over the past year or
so, her usual sweet, sunny disposition would unexpectedly turn dark and
sinister with very little warning. I
rarely saw it coming. We would be in the
parking lot after a pleasant shopping trip, and suddenly she would be shrieking
and flailing, refusing to get into the car.
Or we would be the front yard of a friend’s house, when her enthusiasm
for a play date would abruptly morph into wailing and thrashing, refusing to
get out of the car.
Even our family vacation to a magical kingdom,
which should have been a dream come true, ended in disaster. About 10 minutes
after entering the gate, the storm hit. A
fierce, raging storm that unleashed its fury indiscriminately onto everyone and
everything in its path. As I dragged a
screaming, kicking, biting, flailing, hyperventilating child through the crowds
of “perfect” families, I could feel their scornful accusing stares and could
imagine their question: What kind of mother would let her child act
like that? I could almost hear their
exhales of relief as they must have been thinking, I’m glad that’s not MY child!
Never in my life had I felt such shame.
And never in my life had I felt so helpless. How is it possible for a smart, competent,
college-educated adult to be completely incapable of controlling a child’s
tantrums? How could her erratic, hysterical
behavior continue to be such a mystery to me?
