Fissure

She smiled and a crack formed in that place 

where two lips 

come together.

The right side. Not the left.

The spot where kids stick an index finger and

pull apart

 to make a funny face,

“cheeeeese”,

for the camera.

Right there: A fissure fractured 

and ran right up to her temple--

flirting dangerously with her hairline.

I wish I were made of clay,

(she thought)

I could pinch myself back together.

Zoe means business.

She is not messing around.

She came into this world with complete lack of regard for me, her mother.

My first contraction was at 2:30 in the morning. 

I was holding her, all cleaned up and snuggled in, at 5:25 AM.

Bye-bye epidural.

Sorry you couldn’t make it, Doctor. 

Nurse, too bad you didn’t have the opportunity to call for back up.

Zoe has her own agenda.

She proved this again, a few nights ago, when she threw a tantrum of such proportions I’m surprised the Earth didn’t split at its core.

It’s a lovely night. It’s Zachary’s last T-ball game. I have an appointment to attend before the game begins and am consequently about 20 minutes late. This means that Tim has both children (one of whom is fielding grounders) for just under a half hour.

I receive several ominous texts of warning to get over to the field because my adorable cherubic toddler is involved in some serious screaming action.

When I arrive she is puffy with tears. Red faced. Sweaty. Nothing consoles her.

I kiss her; she slaps me.

I speak softly; she yells in my face.

I offer her a sippy cup of water; she chucks it at the windshield.

As I wrestle her twisting body into the car--the only option is to take her home and put her to bed-- I yell encouragement over my shoulder to Zachary.

Meanwhile, Zoe shrieks and assures me that she is not tired.

Not at all.

That she’s actually not crying.

We get home (thankfully only a 45 second drive from the park) and she flails all the way to her changing table.

She wants milk.

She wants to sleep in a tu-tu.

She wants me to know that my dress is “yucky”.

I change her diaper.

She attempts to rip the mirror off of the wall.

This child is so exhausted that she is speaking and mumbling like a drunk pink princess.

I’m not tempted to lose my temper with her because she is beyond hysteria.

It’s clear that she needs my help.

I know, too, that as soon as I get her settled there is a list of girlfriends whom I can call.

I know that my ladies will share with me their own stories of tantrum terror.

When you are feeling as if you are in a situation that is anxiety provoking or impossible, there is no better solution than to share the emotions about the situation with someone else who has been there.

Who is there,

Who can understand.

You walk away from the conversation with nothing changed, but everything better.

There is no feeling quite like being heard.

I heard Zoe the other night. She needed my help.

Sometimes all we have to do is listen.