She looked down at blood drawn on her hand, the usual spot. Nails dug deep in delicate skin. They heal into age spots. Looking at her hands, they show years of 60 instead of 40.
I hate you mommy, you’re the worst mommy, I want you to die.
These words were so normal to my ears that until I read them in print from another mother they didn’t even take affect.
Light switch flick and my boy who was just spewing venom curls up in my lap apologizing. I’m sorry mommy, I didn’t mean to have fights.
Daily dialogue that becomes so routine you don’t think anything of it.
The adrenaline surge when I have to plan whether to leave my house or return, to say yes to a play date or refuse, to plan options of how I can make the best ending in a given scenario.
You don’t roll with the punches, you have to plan every minute, every errand, every social interaction. It can be a warm fuzzy smile full of giggles and charm or it can be a screaming top of your lungs bloody boxing match that leaves heart strings bruised.
What is the blessing in this? Time. Time has slowed, because each day is a violent
volcano that can remain quiet or can spew hot lava. You record each success, each calm interaction. You reward being able to get in and out of the store with smiles, because that is victory. Time slows and you respond to the positive moments because that is what pushes you through the bad. It’s hard some days to see, jealousy arises often until you remember that everyone has their own volcanoes, their own lava, their own ashes.
And the most beautiful flowers arise from that once poisonous molten rock.
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