November 8, 2023
Last night was a mess, wasn’t it?
When I was crawling down the stairs I heard your dad tell you how your parents are just going through a rough patch right now, and I couldn’t help but wonder the age-old question of how long can I keep getting away with this, without you understanding, or catching on?
Am I terrible parent for thinking this?
How many parents try to hide their quarrels and issues from their kids? I think, almost everybody.
Realistically, about two more years.
But if I’m really honest with myself, if I’ll allow myself that–I think, maybe, on some level, you’ve already caught on.
I think, maybe, this may already have had some lasting impact on you that I can’t really, or won’t really, or don’t want to–really, understand.
How I kept avoiding how you must have looked,
as you hauled jewelry boxes over the baby gate and threw it at me, bouncing against the wall, only to end up in a clutter around my feet, as I buried my face in my knees and sobbed while I listened to your dad tell me how inadequate everything was, as he sat on the toilet, your toothbrush in his hand — at one point, I wondered, how he looked like the conductor of an orchestra, your toothbrush as his baton spiralling in the air, controlling pitches and crescendos with a wave of his arms, hurling insults and criticisms in waves and missile attacks, each one landing and hitting target precisely, ending in a crowd amongst my feet – a pile of dead words and empty jewelry boxes.
“Look at what you’re normalizing for him,” your dad said, as you ran back and forth between my room and ours, and I wanted to stop yet he kept going.
I wish I could tell you that’s the last of it, and tonight, while I massaged your father’s neck as you sat in his lap and watched Blue’s Clues, I knew I was doing it with love, in blinding and full intensity, the sheer purity of it catching me by surprise, I love you both, tonight and last night, I love you both now as much as I did before, even more, and tonight I can say, maybe with naivete, I can say, that was the last fight, it will never happen again–because how can it? How can it when he promised me it won’t? When love is this pure, how can it possibly happen again?
But I remember it.
And the taste of it feels foul against the back of my mouth.
Love,
Your Mother
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