Maisie on Photo Sunday

My adorable. Yesterday those eyes were shooting fire, that jaw set and angry. At me. In that moment I'd done nothing wrong, and she was clearly out of line. It's hard not to fire back when you're under attack, especially by an intimate, especially by an intimate so easily vanquished (for now). But I don't fire back. I send her upstairs, where I won't do any damage to her and we both have time to cool down.

Last night I found a taker for Liam's toddler bed on Craig's List. So I was up until 11 taking the thing apart, and Maisie couldn't sleep and was up with me. I paused, and she crawled into the crook of my arm and just stayed there. If my tears didn't upset her so I'd have bawled; there's something about physical memory--all the sizes she's been in the crook of this arm, and now my arm only reaches to her lower back, and that set jaw is still so fresh in my memory--the opposition, the growing up and away. From me.

She told me the other day, bouncing happily from foot to foot in front of her Dad, that she doesn't want to get baptized: that she wants to stick with the Jewish route offered up occasionally by her Dad, culminating, in her view, in the blow-out bash that is the mitzvah. Later, instead of digging a bit into her reasons--instead of letting her choose and carve the way I always have--instead of crafting a solution that continues to include exposure to both traditions, I felt rejected and fired back, "So you don't want to celebrate Christmas anymore?"

Parents can be awful. Just awful.