I have a daughter. Who is stronger than me. Her words are sharp and precise. They aren’t mangled and uneven like kindergarten snowflakes. What’s on her mind drops like a sheet of glass you can’t really see but instinctually you know danger is near. The first drop of blood appears. It sits quietly on top of a finger or delicately above your brow. It is only then that you realize you are standing in a puddle of broken glass with cuts all over your body.
I have a daughter. A fiercely strong daughter, who fights back like she’s in the ring and there are twenty seconds left in the round and every punch counts. As I duck her jabs, I offer her reason and sensibility. She lands one right in the gut. She’s not mad, she’s hurt. And hurt people, hurt people.
Anger is so personal. So direct. It’s contagious, like yawning after you’ve witnessed someone else’s fatigue. Before you know it, you’ve landed a couple of jabs of your own.
I never know who to help first. I go to her but still see a cyclone of insults swirling around. I decide to stay out of the storm.
I call these my mangled moments of motherhood. The not so pretty days when I’ve probably lost one more battle but walked away a little less wounded then the last. I ache for this stage to end. I’m about as desperate aa a blind kitten searching for milk.
I have a daughter who I love so deeply I sometimes fear I will lose my way without her.
I have a daughter.
And so the saga continues.