Only Human

This morning finds me pondering the million-and-one tiny injuries we inflict on one another along this journey.
The child, testing the power of words, hurls an “I hate you!” across the room.  The parent picks the wrong battle — say, the brushing of the toddler’s teeth after a long and challenging day — and after fighting through clenched jaws and enduring wall-shuddering screams, gives up and puts the child to bed, crying.  The child kicks the mother in the shins.  The baby bites her shoulder.  The mother yells, and startles the toddler.  The child yells, throws a toy, nicks the paint on the door.  The mother grabs their arms a little too hard, pushes them into the time-out chair a little too forcefully, locks herself in her room to calm down while they bang on the door and beg her to come out.  They are scared.  She is at a loss.

Deep breath.

We emerge a bit shaken, a bit drained.  We move carefully, tenderly through the motions, fearful of upending an uneasy peace.  We follow-through on consequences — no treats, no TV, no Millennium Falcon until today or tomorrow or next week — perhaps with a bit of remorse, long after the drama is over.  We have to remind them why: Remember?  No hitting.  Kinder words.  Respect.  We search for the teachable moments.  We hold the line.  Just barely, sometimes.  Barely.

We move on.  We recover.

Sometimes I wonder how we recover.  Sometimes I wonder how much we recover.  Sometimes I fret over which injuries are simply the skinned knees of life — no blood, quick to heal — and which ones will continue to re-open, bleed.  Scar.  Is there any way to know?  I search my memory for when I was two, when I was five.  I try to recall what I learned, what stuck, for better or worse.  I tell myself the truth: I’m doing my best. I’m trying.

If you chase it all with enough love, does that make it better?  Is love the base that counters the acid that occasionally drips through the holes in our resolve?  Is love like salt, like ketchup, like chocolate sauce: add enough, and anything will taste okay?  Does the love fix things?

“It’s a start,” my husband whispers as I lie in the dark, wondering out loud.  “It’s a good place to start.”

We drive to school without talking after a long night.  As we pass the park, LittleMan points out the window, breaks the silence.  “Look, Mommy!  The sun is starting to shine.”