Page 93 of Broken Grump

Finally, after several minutes, I see the reflection of her light-up shoes in the corner of the sumptuous library.

“Baby, come here.” She’s under a desk, and I crouch down next to her.

She crawls over and sobs in my arms. The sounds of her cries, even if I caused them after scolding her, have always broken my heart into little pieces.

“It’s okay. I’m so sorry.”

When she calms down a bit, she sits up, rubs at her eyes, and asks, “Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

“Well—”

“I’m just irritated that Mrs. Kant is always yelling at me,” she interrupts.

What? Mrs. who?Now, I’m very confused.

“Remember the grumpy teacher from the second floor? The one with the mole on her nose and the big, ugly glasses?”

That’s ringing a bit of a bell now, and I can vaguely see the image of her in my brain. “But what about her, honey?”

I’m still holding her, and I wipe an errant piece of hair out of her face.

“She’s always yelling at us kids to quiet down when we’re just having fun outside.”

“Oh, okay.” I’ve always wondered by people who don’t seem to like kids decide to go into teaching. But I also read in a parentingbook that it isn’t always good to side with your child on these types of matters. Instead, you should try to remain neutral and see both perspectives. “Do you know why she gets angry? Maybe there’s a particular part of the playground where you should try to be a little quieter?”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with anything like that, Mom.”

“Okay. Well, then tell me what you think the problem is.”

After a few more moments, she breaks down into hysterics again and hugs my side. Her tears moisten the shoulder of my shirt, but I don’t mind at all.

“What’s wrong now, sweetie?” She’s had little breakdowns like this in the past, I think all kids have. But something about this one feels different.

“That was all a lie, Mommy.”

“What?” She’s certainly throwing me through the ringer today.

“I mean, Mrs. Kant did make me mad today. But that’s not why I’m crying . . . At least, not entirely.”

“Okay.”

In that same parenting book, the author suggested letting your child come to terms with his or her emotions in her own time. So I’m trying my best to do that without much guidance on my end.

After sniffling and running her sleeve along the bottom of her nose, she finally confesses, “I just don’t want Hayden to hate me.”

“Oh, angel.” I hug her in close. “He doesn’t hate you. He just got upset. Remember what we talked about? Children and adults sometimes get angry and say things they don’t mean.”

“But I tried to be good. I really did because I want Hayden to be happy.”

Around that time, his shadow darkens the doorway, but my daughter doesn’t seem to notice.

Then, I realize that I’m acting as an intermediary between the two of them.

Choking down some tears of my own, I ask, “Why, Luna? Why are you so concerned with making Hayden happy?”

“Because—” Her eyes fall to the hem of her jeans, and she picks at one of them.

“Because why?” My heart is beating out of my chest as I wait for her answer.

---