Liquid Volcano's

I did my damnedest to sleep in this morning, but KC decided to sneak into my room and scare me half to death in order to pull me from my bed.

There I was mid-dream, flirting with a Vince Vaughn look alike, when suddenly a loud voice booms before me, "Wake up!" and I open my eyes and I scream. I can't help but scream, because there is KC with her face right in my face imploring me to wake up, and it's not even close to 8 am. And she's breathing in my face, morning breath and all, wanting to get cuddly and snuggle and all I want is to be left alone, curtains drawn against the sun, with just my pillow, my blanket and an empty room.

In other words, my warm and fuzzy doesn't kick in all that early, and there are some days when it doesn't kick in at all. Like this morning for example, KC is determined to make this a rough patch day. Being that my daughter has been always of an age going on another age light-years away from where she actually is, life with her is often times difficult. Like me, she can be mule ass stubborn with a tendency to run her mouth prior to thinking before she speaks.

KC would like to think I am clueless but I know how it works. I remember getting so angry and upset, that words would form in the pit of my stomach, until suddenly there I was blurting them out. Spitting them out like mini balls of fire at anyone and everyone because I hadn't yet learned the fine art of controlling my anger.

I hurt best the ones I loved, learning quickly the things I shouldn't say. And much like an archer with an arrow, I could hit a bulls-eye every time, so deadly was my aim. I ruined Christmas for my Mother once, a fact I still feel quilt for today, though I apologized for it a long time ago.

It was the year my Mother and I moved into a sleepy little bedroom village, tucked away in a small house the color of mustard. Christmas was exceedingly hard that year. My Mother having come to the conclusion that her twelve year marriage to my stepfather was over, despite the fact that they still both loved each other. But what he couldn't or wouldn't give up, was the one thing nobody could live with anymore. And so, when it came down to a choice, choose your family or choose your poison, he chose his beer and let his family walk away.

It was a time of great hurt and I didn't make it any easier for my Mother. Inside I raged, hating the house we lived in, hating how far we were away from home, hating my stepfather for being a bastard drunk. We both lived in circles of hating and loving, loving and hating, each one of us dealing with it in our own way.

Mom was working crazy hours, doing everything she could do to keep the money coming in to pay the rent, fill the fridge and keep up from looking like beggars on the street. But it wasn't good enough for me, not the spoiled child used to getting everything and anything. It all came to a head the night she brought the Christmas tree home.

It reminded me of a Charlie Brown tree, small limp branches barely able to hold themselves up, let alone any ornaments and short, almost the same height as me, a very not impressing 5'0 tall. I wanted to cry when I saw it, and I did ... Despite the fact that my Mother was holding it there proud in the living room like it was the best tree ever, a smile plastered bright across her face.

And I ruined it. I took one look and I opened my mouth, because I was used to trees that touched the ceiling, trees that had wonderful thick branches where flocks of birds could hide and never be seen. Because I wanted to go home for Christmas and this was, and never would be home to me. And I said all of that out loud, watching as the smile on my mother's face faded and disappeared, the sad little tree dropping down into the corner as she ran past me in tears into her bedroom closing the door behind her. And for one small second I was glad, thinking to myself, Hah ... Now she'll understand how much I've been hurting. And in that moment, I didn't care enough to realize that I had caused her pain.

Eventually Mom came out of her room, I made my apologies and Christmas that year passed without further incident. Much like KC, I was 13 going on another age altogether, with my mouth, my pride and my temper as selfish as it was. It is this I try to remember while I am disciplining my daughter. Remembering how hard it was for me to get control over the liquid volcano that made up my insides. But it is a hard road, and one not so easily traveled. Still in selfish mode, my daughter has much more to learn about life, even though she thinks she knows it all right now at the tender age of eight. But I know it's all about patience and time, and patience and time.