hummus

Mommy and Daddy had a rocky afternoon. I can't get enough me-time and Daddy doesn't get any. Kids are sensitive creatures. They pick up on tensions, even when they involve hurled frozen veggie-burgers (Daddy) and hurled angry curse words (Mommy). It was subtle, yes, but kids are receptive. Like little sponges.
At first, after I ran upstairs, not dramatic at all, Stella tromped up to my bedroom suite (the word suite regarding any physical space I inhabit gives me an immediate boost) to sing her butterfly song and twirl around for a bit. "Are you happy now?" She asked, between numbers. "It's okay, Sweetie," I sobbed. "It's okay for Mommy to be upset. It's not your job to make me happy." Always teaching, I am, even in the throes of despair. Then she lay with me on the floor, told me to put my head down and go to sleep, close my eyes, and then swirled her little angel fingertips in the corners of my eyes. "Got it!" she announced, when she caught a tear.

Some hours later, after bonus television time had been logged and laundry had been folded—I could only bring myself to fold my own and the kids' things. I left Bryan's in a crumpled heap, THAT'S how mad I was. I know, I still can't believe it—I sat on the porch with my latest book on spiritual healing, and before I knew it, Stella was swimming in hummus. And I just stood there and smiled as if she'd casted a spell. It was the healing balm I needed. If I hadn't been puffy-eyed, headachy and wasted from my row, I would have hit the ceiling upon discovering the mess. But in my addled state, all I could do was laugh and run for the camera. Kids are so smart that way.

Unfortunately, it doesn't always work. There was always tension in my house when I was about Stella's age, and maybe I tried casting the same spell of happiness to break the spell of misery my parents suffered under. When I was four I grabbed a step-ladder in the middle of the night, dragged it down to the basement which we'd just had paneled and painted as high as I could reach with yellow exterior house paint, which was probably not only oil-based, but possibly leaded and toxic in all sorts of fun ways. My father, he did not smile upon discovering my work. He beat me instead. Oh there I said it. In cyberspace. Well he tried to beat me. He made every effort to reach around my mother's body while I sat in the bathtub staring mesmerized at the cracking paint on my arms and the pale yellow water.

That could be one reason why Stella's chick-pea masterpiece evoked only affection from me. My parents I see now, taught me well.