Disaster was brewing. My temper had been tested all day and was as thin as a pancake. Goose oozed with a rebellious spirit from the moment she woke up. I had yelled at her once already, driving her to tears, after she had (accidentally) ripped the upholstery of our nicer car.
Last minute guests were coming. Our house was in its normal state: post-Katrina-like. I was desperate to have the children entertain themselves as I cleaned. So when they started making an indoor sandbox in my kitchen, I looked the other way. Sometimes you have to make a mess to clean another mess up. Brown lentils, which had previously been dumped on the floor (thanks Little E), were being transferred between metal bowls. I listened for the contended clanging from the other room as an indication of the children's well being. Goose had been instructed more than once not to dump any more "sand" onto the floor, so when I came in to find the floor covered with flour, oatmeal, pasta, and barley, in addition to the lentils, I started yelling again.
I ranted about the loss of food (50 cents worth of pasta), I rambled about the severe lack of obedience my two year old possessed, and with my body pulsing with anger, I firmly planted her butt in time out.
"You stay there until I come and get you."
Ha.
I could see from the defiant gleam in her eye that this would not end so pleasantly. One step. Two. Three. Four. I was obliged to respond to each test of my will with increased intensity. I was really losing control. Of myself, of her, of any hope of a teaching moment. My rage had fractured reality into two distinct but parallel thought paths. One drove my anger into a froth, the other pleaded with me for more patience and composure.
"Goose," I said as I squeezed her little shoulders, "do you want me to hurt you?" She blinked blankly at me. She doesn't even know what a spanking is. Inside I gasped. Had I really said that? I was losing it fast. This would not end well.
My idle threat had not made a dent in the young, unbendable will before me. One more exodus from time out broke my fragile grip on self-control. I scooped her up, stomped upstairs to her bedroom and, screaming, told her she had better not come out anytime soon. To drive my message home, I locked her door on the way out. Goose did not take this action quietly. For good measure, I put Little E into his crib.
Both children screaming injustice upstairs did little to help me calm down. And although I was now technically free to clean for the guests, I sat paralyzed on the kitchen floor. That is until I remembered the cheesecake in the fridge.
Little E had fallen asleep, but Goose was awake and still wailing: "Mommy, I can't get out. I don't want my door locked.". My heart softened. The only way to win this tug-of-war was to let go of my end of the rope.
"Goosie," I called, already knowing the answer. "Would you like to share some cheesecake?"
Instantly, silence engulfed the house. Then a quiet "yes." I unlocked the door, apologized, and handed her a fork. We sat on kitchen floor, among the lentils and pasta, and laughed as we plunged our two forks into the same cheesecake. Who knew the true unifying power of cheesecake? Perhaps I'll send a slice and a few forks on over to the Senate floor.
