The dark voice takes over, briefly
As the angry words flowed from my mouth with volcanic intensity, simultaneously I could feel the lava gushing forth and objectively observe myself, as if from above. I knew that the pissy 3 year old in me had broken loose and was shattering a dream for my little girl. But I could not — I did not arrest myself.
The lava was so powerful, it seemed to be filled with the frustrations of generations of mothers exhausted by the heartbreak of lost articles, misplaced treasures and the inability of little people to prevent these occurences.
“WHERE IS THE BALLET SLIPPER? We only bought it yesterday! I told you HOW to keep it safe… When did you know it was gone? Why didn’t you tell Daddy or me? Have you looked? Are you not going to look?… You seem not to care about this…. Left behind in the bag it must have gone out in the garbage last night… No, I won’t buy you another pair — those ones are only a day old!… You cannot go to dance class without them, so I WILL HAVE TO CANCEL YOUR REGISTRATION. The RULE at the class is that you have to have the shoes, the tights and the leotard……. ARE YOU NOT GOING TO LOOK ANYWHERE?!!”
At this point, the tears began to flow as Kate realized that her dream of going to her first ballet class would not happen. She knew that I meant business because I rarely threaten ridiculous consequences I know I will not keep. I try not to threaten at all. But at this moment, it was as if I was plugged-in to that Mother consciousness and I was fueled by the shared anger of every mother who came before me. Her tears did not stop me and only grew more intense as I continued.
“Fine then, just go to bed. If you don’t care to search for them, I certainly won’t.”
I was astonished that she remained immobile on her bed, crying and seemingly ignoring my suggestion for how to solve the mystery of the lost ballet slipper. The one so new it did not yet have toe imprints in it. This is the girl who makes her bed, tidies her room most every day and is generally very helpful. She’s inquisitive and curious and normally full of ideas. But in this moment she was a lump, herself swimming in sadness.
I turned off the light and turned to shut the door.
“We can talk about this later when I’m less angry and you are able to think clearly.”
From my rational perch looking down on this fiasco I knew that my intention was to shut her down, to tune out her desperate cries and to control her. The 3 year old in me had been looking for an outlet, and she found one in the lost ballet slipper. I knew this was horrid and after registering this, my resolve began to soften.
She followed me out the door begging with her tears for me to tell her that there was some other way, some secret Mother card I would pull out to resurrect her dream. I knew I could buy another pair of slippers, but stubbornly I still refused to give her this out. I wanted her to feel the loss — to make her to mind her belongings and keep them safe. I ignored the loving voice in me who reminded me that this is normal 4 year old behaviour and I could not make her do anything she was unable to do; the dark voice was so clearly in charge.
But now aware of the absurdity of ignoring her aching heart, the rational side of me found a breech in the dyke and light began to flow once again. My problem solving skills kicked in. The garbage scenario was not holding water for me. This entire altercation had been of my own making: unnecessary, shatteringly painful for Kate and ridiculous. There it was, I’d stooped that low, and now I sit with that embarrassing, ugly realization.
The slipper of course, was found down the hall in another room a mere 25 feet from the spot on which I shattered her dream. It had likely travelled there in the hands of her zealous 2 year old brother. When I found it, I tried to wake and tell her; and now feeling quite contrite, apologize. Sensibly, she would have none of it and slept soundly, delaying my precious absolution.
She will always forgive me because she loves me unconditionally, as I do her. And yet I betray that love when at the end of a day, I allow myself to pop open the hatch of my anger over a problem which was never really an issue. The slipper was not thrown out. It’s true that she knew it was lost and had done nothing to find it. But should this surprise me, let alone anger me? The truth is that the dark voice in me needed to vent and I chose to punish her and momentarily crushed her long-held dream. That’s ugly. And the worst part is that when I’m tired it could happen again.
My husband is satisfied that I was only being human, demonstrating real emotions, if inappropriate expression of them. I remain fixated on how to stop the dark voice from speaking out. Why is that 3 year old so pissy anyway?