Say sorry

Say sorry

“Say sorry.”

Blank stare.

“Say sorry Ri!!”

Smidgens of defiance crease her face. My anger starts bubbling as I keep repeating my request. She lowers her face, fixes her eyes on a floor tile and doesn’t flinch. I hit boiling point and explode. The yelling starts. Next, the confiscation of toys. More yelling. I can’t wrap my head around this attitude. Pride at this age? All of two years and she thinks she can get away with it. I’m so angry and bustling around the house, mumbling and grumbling as she sits and watches me. The stubborn calmness fuels me on.

As a mother I’ve discovered that the best way to cope with frustration is to keep busy. I run into the washroom to do the laundry and sift impatiently through a pile of clothes. The mirror stops me with my reflection. I stare for a while and see it – the same creases on my face. The wrinkles of regret from walking away with my pride at the cost of destroying relationships. The lines drawn by thirty years of being the wrong sort of headstrong. The two year old who adamantly refused to grow up.

Hypocrisy at its best. Perhaps this innate blindness to our own faults is a form of survival. After all, can we live knowing how truly awful we are capable of being?

I went back, sat next to her and we watched a creepy version of the Jack and Jill nursery rhyme.

‘I’m sorry.” I whispered. But she was too busy singing to care.

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