Hot Wheels and Stormy Weather

“I wish he’d never been born,” my seven-year-old mutters, angry eyes boring holes into the oblivious, blonde head of her little brother.

“Oh really?” I ask, eyebrows raised, pondering how I am ever going to handle this one. I’m given a curt, furious nod as a response.

Damn, I think to myself. We really should have finished watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her, stroking her hair gently, “when he’s a bit older, he’ll be better.”

He won’t. I know that. She’ll periodically hate and love him until they’re both out of their teen years. What did I expect? They’re more than five years apart.

I forgot my mask in the car when I waddled into the grocery store, hefting my oversized toddler in my arms. I’m not sure why I forgot — it’s been nearly two years into this pandemic.

Huffing and puffing after finally wrestling him into the shopping cart with fabric plastered to my face, I’m already in a bad mood when I start to shop. This mask suffocates me; it fogs up my glasses.

My toddler starts to flop around in the cart, screaming and flailing in intervals. Hot Wheels, I think, remembering the end-display that is always chock full of them.

We have a routine at the grocery store, my toddler and I. He flails, I grab a teeny toy car off of the display, take it out of the package (the package gets scanned at the till, I promise) and entertain him with it. They’re like, $2. That’s money well spent.

Come to think of it, I’m probably enforcing the flailing and similar bad behaviour buying him the damned thing in the first place. I’ll have to refrain next time.

Then we’ll see some real tears.

My daughter pouts at her brother’s new toy after school. That tiny, metal Lamborghini replica. Forest green. Black hubcaps. She doesn’t want a toy car, but it’s the principle of the thing.

I want that toy, honestly. It looks so cool, and why are cars so much cooler and more fun than my daughter’s toddler toys were? Babies and stuffies and puzzles were her thing; rocking babies gently to sleep in her mothering arms made her happy. Cars and trucks were for boys, she’d told me when she was a bit older.

I disagree. But I get it. They are more fun, though.

She pouts relentlessly at this toy that she has zero interest in. The sass radiating off of my dainty seven-year-old is rife with unfiltered rage, and I’m fearful of her future teenaged drama. I’m not sure I’m prepared for such explosions and rumblings, which are sure to come my way sooner than I’d like.

Things have been rocky with my girl ever since her brother was born. She adored him and understood the shift in attentions-paid when he was tiny, but now, as she matures and blooms out of her little-kid phase and into a beautiful, lean girl, her patience is paper-thin. He’s almost two, so his concept of sharing and turn-taking and other childhood social niceties are shaky at best, and this ignorance is a punishable crime to my daughter.

Toddler tears and screams of frustration roil up from the living room.

“What happened,” I bark; the question is an angry statement. I’m at the end of my rope.

“He won’t let me drive the car!” my daughter whines, a shrill noise that sets my teeth on edge. The high-pitched tone that accompanies the “a” in “car” makes me want to run away from this parenting job full stop. Why do I get so angry and flush every time they fight like this?

“Just let him play with it,” the words fly out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think. That’s terrible parenting, I hear myself retort, you know he’ll be worse if you give in every time and what message are you sending to your daughter??

“That’s not fair!” comes the predictable admonishment, punctuated with more irritating whines.

She’s right. I hate that.

“Okay, just…come here. Sweetie, come here.” I try to think as I hear the stomping of furious feet on the stairs. I try to conjure up the answer to my current parenting snafus as she enters the room, huffing like an angry little bull.

God, I’m failing so hard right now, is all I can think.

I’ve got nothing, but she’s right there. I know that I have to say something right now. Anything. Words. Just words. Just…something.

I turn and she’s fuming, glaring at me from under angry brows, her gray eyes two stormy hurricanes of rage. Still, nothing. I’m out of ideas.

I open my arms and she runs to me, crashing into me with big waves of emotion and sobs, the storm washing over me in great, heaving cries of frustration.

I hold her. I don’t know what else to do. I hold her and stroke her golden locks, and I tell her that everything will be alright.

It’s a lie, but I mean it anyway.

The storm fades, as usual. But it’s rumbling there, still, bubbling up from underneath her now calm, soft exterior, ready to wipe out small villages at the next offensive prod from her brother.

My daughter is trying, I realize. It’s hard being little like that, with such big, scary, erupting emotions stirring inside of her all the time. It would be better if I knew what I was doing, but I don’t.

My son needs to learn some house rules, I know. I do know that. He can’t rule the roost, especially when I’m the one who’s supposed to be ruling this particular roost, and I have lost all respect and power from those under my wing. We just take it a day at a time; one little storm at a time.

For now, that will have to do.

“Vroooooom…” my daughter hums, running the shiny forest green Lamborghini over her giggling brother’s knees, and I warm up inside. She’s smiling at him, and he’s grinning at her as though she is the sun and the moon and the stars, and I take a mental snapshot in my mind.

The storm is settled for now. I will have to address the causes and fix them soon, but for now, they’re playing with the same toy car, and all is right in my world.

Bad weather’s coming. But for now, all’s well.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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