I yank Miriam up by the arm, dragging her away from the colorful supply of toys. She starts to whimper, then scream, lying on the Target linoleum tile. She spreads like a starfish and pounds her feet. People turn to look, some with pity, some with judgment. Fluorescent lights above make the toys seem too bright.
If I just let her have it it will all be over. It’s just one toy, an intriguing thought, but giving in would raise a selfish child. My mother always said that to me. Every time I asked for something, she would exclaim, “You don’t need all these things, you’re just a stupid kid.” Mirroring my mother’s tone, I say “Miriam, if you don’t stand up right now, I am going to leave without you.” I push my cart, full of groceries and diapers, as I walk away. Her screams only get louder.
Shut up, stupid kid
I try to ignore her but I can’t help but notice the glares. Target employees in eye-catching red shirts peek around shelving. Only after I walked almost fifteen feet, did she stumble upward and run over, pushing her hot, tearful face into my pant leg. I rip her off “Stop crying,” I tell her, red filling my vision. I am too annoyed to comfort her.
I smile up at the people around us like a mask hiding my fuming face. I hope they can see I am not a bad mom, just a stressed one. Overstimulated, I head to check-out.
As I buckle Miriam into her car seat I grip her arms tight, holding myself from hitting her. “Mommy, you’re hurting me,” she says softly, almost a whisper. A flicker of guilt rushes inside me, when I look at her scared face. She embarrassed me. Humiliated me. In the solitude of the car, a quick slap is all I need to release my fury and teach Miriam a lesson.
Just to teach her a lesson, I repeat to myself.
My gray minivan is a mess, toys and greasy fast-food wrappers on the floor. The carpet smells like the urine of a long-dead cat. Miriam absently drinks grape juice as she gazes out the window.
I was never able to feel the love other parents had for their kids. Hugging her feels forced. Like putting on a play, acting like the perfect parent. Why can’t I feel like other parents do?
I join the sea of industrial-colored cars. Un-original bumper stickers boasting the smartest kids or best political candidate. The world around the car is rushing by, colors bleed into each other but the cars seem to move as one. I drive, fast and straight until I abruptly stop as a car cuts me off, “Do you know how to drive?” I yell disapprovingly to the driver, of course, he can’t hear me. Oblivious to my displeasure, he speeds off, continuing to weave. I am jolted forward, my seatbelt locked tightly against my chest. High pitched toddler screams come from the back seat. With a sigh, I glance in the rearview mirror, just above my wrinkled forehead. Miriam’s white sundress is covered in sticky, purple juice. Her cup, once full, is now rolling away on the floor of the car, dribbling out juice as it wobbles. “Come on Miri, really? Why do you have to scream about everything?” The smell of artificial grapes floods into my nose, I hate that smell.
I start to yell “Why can’t you just hold onto your juice?” Miriam curls up hiding behind her tiny legs, hoping they would protect from my yelling. “Why can’t you stop screaming?” “Why can’t you just be quiet?” “Why can’t you just be normal?” Why? Why? Why? Why? These were not questions I had for Miriam, these were questions I had for myself. Why can’t I handle her screams? Why can’t I hold back my emotions? Why can’t I be a good mother?
Grape Juice, that deep purple smell, I am sitting at my yellowed dinner table, my tiny legs swinging, they couldn’t touch the ground yet. I had a glass of juice. I had convinced my stern mother I was old enough for a big cup. All my attempt to be more like my older brothers. Of course, my tiny fingers couldn’t hold the large heavy glass, full of deep purple liquid for long. I dropped the glass, tiny shards and purple liquid spread like a wound over our white carpet. Stain lasted for years. I took a deep breath, inhaling the grape juice before a swift slap was delivered across my face. Delivered by my mother’s long fingers, the slap lasted only a second but the moment stayed with me every time I saw the stain, or my mother.
In my minivan, I look back to see my own child, same juice, same tears rushing down her face, but now I was in charge, I can act differently. I pull off the busy street, cars continue to rush by, all continuing on their path. On the side of the road, I unclip my seat belt, gathering myself. I pick up the cup wobbling on the floor of my car. Leaning over my seat, I take a deep breath, I say something I wish so many times my mother had said to me, “Miriam, I’m sorry,” with a shaky breath I continue “I shouldn’t have yelled, I should not have hit you.” She looks at me, her face is red, cheeks still streaked with tears, she brings a tiny hand up, rubbing her tears away. She is still apprehensive, knowing I might explode again at any moment, “It’s alright, Mommy.” I lean in, giving her a big hug, this time it’s me who cries into her.
How oblivious was I that I thought hitting and yelling would stop her from being a toddler. I promised to Miriam, to myself, I would break the chain my mother started. I would let the dark purple stain fade away, colorless.