I threw things, fashioning a haphazard constellation of crumbs on the kitchen floor. I yelled loud, abrasive words, leaving little to be figured out or later interpreted out of context. The moment sprang from the shrapnel of a plan, detonated.
You see, I had in my mind a way for things to be. Things would unfold according to the agenda I envisioned, and all would be well. Only things weren’t by a long shot. And I lost it. Went all BOOM! The aforementioned throwing and yelling, coupled with generous loads of stomping, sulking and passive-aggressive bullshit. All nefarious and repulsive and yet so much a part of who I am. Zero to sixty to way-too-damn-fast and then off the tracks. In an instant. A heartbeat. A blink of an eye. Or whatever cliché you prefer.
Long after the scene had been cleared, I stood in the darkness. Contemplated. Lamented. Went for a drive that could have gone one of two ways. Rolled down the windows and let the bitter wind freeze my tears to my cheeks.
I came back.
I crawled up the ladder and into the bed of the youngest one, who went to sleep quiet certain that daddy didn’t love her very much. Amidst the menagerie of stuffed animals, I held her as tightly as her squirms would allow. We struggled for purchase.
“I’m sorry I was so scary last night.”
And now we’re making Chex Mix. What I’d planned to do last night all by myself is now a father-daughter project.
Gotta run. The timer is going off . . .