Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Did you really just fucking say that to me?!”
“You’re the only other person in this room.”
“Who the f-”
“No.”
“What the-”
“No.” The firmness in my second statement is attached to a lifted hand. “I will not tolerate being spoken to in this tone or this manner or this volume. You may excuse yourself to take space to calm down or I will excuse myself; however, this conversation will not continue until you have. Until you can talk to me and not at me.”
Spotting the flare in his nostrils indicates the answer as does the sharp inhale he steals. “That’s not-”
“I will excuse myself then.”
My lack of hesitation to spin on my new red wedge heels simply fuels more misplaced anger to burst out in Russian, which fuses with the screaming his daughter is doing at the top of her lungs to create an ear-splitting symphony I’m going to need another Tylenol for.
Nope.
I am a woman of my word.
I will not be engaging.
Because here’s the thing about fighting with an adult when you’re pissed off…about ninety percent of the time two things happen. One, neither person hears the other person. Sure, the screeching and the venom spewed may reach your ears, but you’re not hearing anything. You’re focused on your emotions that are skyrocketing and making sure they receive some of your ire in return for them giving you theirs. This isn’t good for anyone involved, and it’s one way that arguments become stalemates that result in both parties not speaking to one another for days. The other thing that can happen is you get so caught up in the yelling and the shouting that the actual reason for the argument is never addressed. You attack the surface level shit and then the real issue is left to plant seeds, grow, and eventually bloom into window breaking rage that also isn’t healthy.
The thing about fighting or arguing with children that I like to remember is that if we can give them better communication tools to work with when their brain is developing as it is then perhaps, they’ll be better communicators as they level up in life.
And while I can’t fix asshole adults per se, I can encourage them to make better choices.
Ones that won’t end with me wishing they choke on eggnog or discover roaches in their reindeer shaped holiday chocolate.
Upon exiting to the back patio, cool air caresses my cheeks, providing me with the first moment of peace I’ve had all day.
This is so not how I saw my boyfriend’s – I think we’re using that term? – welcome home from the road stretch going.
I pictured a lot more hugs.
And kisses.
And pizza.
Deep dish because I want him to see that his kiddo will eat it as long as she can’t really see the meat, the cheese, or the bread.
I put pineapples and jalapenos on the personal size one I ordered for her last weekend and she damn near ate the whole thing in one sitting.
She’s making a lot of progress!
Progress I wanted to show him and celebrate.
Not put at the back of the tree because someone decided to smash a bunch of ornaments out of spite.
Crossing over to the outdoor sitting area, I flop onto the couch, cross one leg over the other, and stare at the wooden playhouse where our guest of honor is hiding while I patiently wait for the howling inside the house to cease.
I’m not entirely sure of its duration; however, I do know that by the time it’s over, we’ve definitely crossed into dinner time and pouring myself a peppermint martini sounds more like a necessity than a suggestion.
We have the ingredients.
Anna insists on keeping me stocked with booze.
And I now completely understand why.
The back door opening summons my stare over to Igor who immediately announces, “Bella’s asleep.”
There’s no delay in my nodding. “Expected.”
“Is it?” He quirks a confused eyebrow. “It’s only six o’clock.”
“Yeah, but she hasn’t been eating or sleeping the best. Plus, she’s been lashing out as well as complaining of ‘ouchy legs’ for two days.”
Horror burrows into his expression during his approach. “Fuck, is she dying?!”
“Growth spurt.” It’s impossible not to offer him a sympathetic smile. “It means your little princess is unhappy and uncomfortable and undergoing a change in her body.”
“I thought that didn’t happen until fifteen?”
“You really think chicks don’t get their periods until fifteen?”
His wincing barely precedes him falling to the seat beside me. “I mean…I…did…”
“Oh…” my hand dramatically hits my red sweater covered chest on a shake of the head. “Oh…you poor sweet dumb soul.”
Laughter leaves him as he extends his arm along the back of the couch. “It’s like being insulted by a Muppet.”
“And educating you is like trying to teach a yeti new tricks.”
Additional chuckles echo around the backyard. “Because I’m tall?”
“Because you’re pasty.”
This time the two of us laugh louder together, an action that’s followed by our bodies thoughtlessly gravitating closer together.