We began Valentine’s Day arguing. Me and my little Moose, not me and J. (Actually, J. and I had a *romantic* dinner Friday night, when neither of our urchins were around at a delicious place called Les Nomades).
But I digress from my tale of grumpiness.
The arguing with my daughter this morning. Grrr. Happens almost every Sunday morning. See, she spends every Sunday at her dad’s and never wants to get moving to head there. I remind her that I don’t like hurrying her along – but I am obligated to get her there at 9:00am. On cue, she doesn’t do a thing; she just sits on the couch, refusing to finish getting dressed, brush her hair or whatever activity I’ve just asked her to do. Repeat this. Every Sunday. Her dad is often not nice to her (and he’s always not nice to me) so I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to go there either. But I have to send her over there anyhow. GROWL.
This morning was especially grump-inducing because we had an incident. I was sitting next to her on the couch telling her to get moving, and, as I started to get up, she flung her arm in front of me to stop me from mobilizing. Unfortunately, she had the TV remote in hand, which struck my cheekbone full on, like a hammer posed perpendicularly to strike my face.
You have never heard a real GROWL unless you have heard it coming from Mama Bear. The air went still. Under his breath, J. said “Uh…oh.” Every muscle in my daughter’s body froze and she quickly said, ”I’msorrybutitwasanaccident!”
“Get. Dressed. Now.” I growled in a loud whisper that was not a whisper at all.
She got dressed.
She doesn’t want to go, and I don’t want to send her. But I have to. And for some reason, this Sunday, I just couldn’t shake it off – the unfairness of it.
As were we leaving, she said, “Mom, will Daddy ever be nice to you?” And I replied, “I don’t know Honey; but that doesn’t matter. What matters is making sure he’s nice to you.”
It didn’t help much, but that’s all I had.
She quietly considered my response as we drove over to her dad’s apartment.