“It’s not lost, it’s just down the street,” she said, wrinkling her nose, an allusion to the unfortunate proximity between the town’s miasmic sew- age plant and the high school.
“Wait a second,” I chimed in. “Which ring?”
“Yours. The flower one. Remember?”
“Say what, now?”
“Oop… Athena, I have to go.” She smashed one finger down on the screen to disconnect the call, then turned her head in my direction with a deep breath and a sheepish smile. Now, I may not remember the last time my daughter suddenly clamored into my bed mid-night or took a flying leap to cling to my torso, but I do remember the last time I seriously lost my temper with her, and I remember it with humbling, haunting clarity. It was over a three-dollar hotdog at an outdoor event, first begged for, and then discarded in the dirt. It also was my first rodeo with the fickle, wayward beasts they call “toddlers,” as though the cutesy name will soften the horrors within. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and desperate to step away, to scream into the void, but there was no void to be found. Only a small sobbing child, powerless and confused; she has always been afraid of sudden noises and loud voices.
My own voice was suddenly loud enough to resonate regretfully in my heart over a decade later.
But at that moment, what I really lost was any desire to parent with the
8
Made with FlippingBook Ebook Creator