It was a perfect storm of frustration.
A long day. An even longer night.
Two screaming kids, one screaming in outrage because she Still. Wasn’t. Asleep. yet, the other screaming out of some deep-seeded need interwoven with his XY chromosome to be constantly noisy, an otherwise preoccupied husband out of earshot, a frazzled mother trying to alternately soothe a fussy baby and get the other clean and ready for bed…
Eventually the wave crests, the earth cracks, the aria crescendos.
“Please. Shut up.”
The fat lady sang.
I let my frustration bubble up and out of my mouth, and, sweet Mother Mary, it worked.
He fell absolutely silent as I scrubbed his hair dry, counting the seconds before I could rush into the other’s bedroom to replace the white noise monitor with a mother’s shushing.
I got to thirty before I realized I had just carelessly tossed out the forbidden “s” word. I got to thirty-two before I realized that my boy, my firstborn, was not silent out of obedience, but from full-fledged fragility.
He was stunned, dumbstruck, blindsided by my cruelty. He had no words for this betrayal.
I had hurt his feelings, and now I had to watch him crumple beneath the weight of two thoughtless words. It’s one thing to see your child get hurt. It’s another world entirely to know you dealt the blow.
It took an hour, curled around the curve of his fragile shoulders, trying to undo the few seconds it took to break his heart. When he looked at me, with tears in his eyes and a hand on his chest, and said, “You hurt my heart,” I knew I would have cut out my own and given it to him, had he but asked.
It took an hour. An hour of hugs, of kisses, of prayer, and, most importantly, of words. Words reassuring my love, words requesting his forgiveness, words expressing my earnest regret.
And even after speaking those new words, as if they were mortar to the cracks I caused, I knew he was still hurt. Despite his active forgiveness, despite his promise that he knew I loved him, that he was no longer angry with me, I knew he still nursed a throbbing heart, a heart tender to its core, wrapped in dirt stains and bug juice, a heart split in two by his own mother’s harshness.
But then he crawled into our bed, early the next morning, whispering, “Mom, I forgive you,” and I wanted to open up my chest and tuck a piece of him inside me, next to my heart, because I want to be just like him when I grow up.
[ Note: This was originally written on my family blog, recycled and revised for The Red Dress writing prompt, Forgiven. Constructive criticism welcome; in fact, I pretty much beg for it. ]
6 comments
Comments feed for this article
March 25, 2011 at 6:00 pm
Frelle
oh honey.
thank you for writing a page out of your story. this made me cry. what a sweet sad and tender way to tell a story. I can identify for sure.
March 25, 2011 at 9:35 pm
Meet the Buttrams
I cried when it happened, cried when I told my mom about it the next day, and cried while I wrote it.
Thank you!
March 25, 2011 at 6:07 pm
julie
Gorgeous. Honest. So raw and real – love this, Jess. Thanks for sharing.
(p.s. I didn’t know you participated in TRDC. How very awesome.)
March 25, 2011 at 9:35 pm
Meet the Buttrams
Thanks, Julie! I just started TRDC – I’ve decided not to be lazy about this, “maybe I’ll get paid to write,” thing and hone it!
March 26, 2011 at 1:29 pm
hastaclaridad
Made me cry as well. I would have loved to have had a mother who cared that much. To have felt the weight of her words. You are so wonderful and he is lucky to have you. The fact that you care means more than you know…
March 27, 2011 at 2:51 pm
Meet the Buttrams
Thank you!