on the day she was born I cried - Part 2

My baby grew into a junior dynamo (not to be confused with Dinamo). At 11 months Maria slept through the night for the very first time. I checked on her to make sure she hadn't died in her sleep (admit it, you've done that too.) I slowly started to enter the land of the living once again.

The baby who cried non-stop slowly transformed into a high maintenance toddler with a fierce temper. One thing I could be sure of is that my daughter would never be a pushover. (Always looking on the bright side.) Not that she was a bully (with anyone but her parents). She got on remarkably well with other little kids and we both enjoyed a weekly playgroup. She loved outings of any kind. In fact, she was usually quite happy until it was time to go home. She likes the story I told about her early trips to the park so much that she retells the tale to her friends with a genuine sense of pride.

The daily trip to "Maria's park" as it was called, was a ritual not to be missed. After playing on every piece of playground equipment 2 or 3 times, it was time to pop her back in the stroller and head home. Well, on more than one occasion, the news of our upcoming departure was met with some resistance. Picture a toddler wrapping her whole self around a tree, holding on with all her might. And picture her pitiful mother trying to pry her away from the tree, nails dug into the bark, yet very carefully peeling her away so as not to bruise her, while just DYING of embarrassment at my child's insolent display...Then seeing me, Embarrassed Mom of the Year, trying to bend my daughter's board-stiff body to fit into the stroller so that I can snap the goddamn belt and get this screaming kid home. Get the picture? Ain't too pretty, is it!?!

I ask myself, "How did she survive those early years?"

Face it, she needed lots of entertainment/stimulation. She was a very sociable kid, just above average intelligence and quite healthy, except for recurring bouts of the hives. But I won't get into that. They finally ended a couple years ago, and I fear they'll return if I talk about them. Let's just tiptoe outta that topic.

I mentioned Maria's temper. I'm not talking about the kid who is denied the candy in the checkout line. In fact, I can proudly say she never pulled that! (Can you see I'm beaming?) She saved her outbursts for the comforts of home. All her "finest" moments took place right in our house, mostly on her bedroom floor. I can't say I really remember what would trigger her tantrums. I think I've repressed it cuz it was all pretty traumatic for me (as well as her). However, I do recall on more than one occasion that I had to physically restrain Maria by sitting on top of her (keep in mind my doctor advised this). I had to do this God awful task until the screaming energy drained out of her wiry little body. Then she'd curl up to me, sobbing with a headache. Exhaustion. I don't know how many years those horrible times have aged me. And I couldn't imagine the terrifying storm inside of her. It's as if she was possessed. But I could not and would not abandon her. I wanted to help her through it somehow, and protect her.

Her dad had the same intentions, but he had no patience. Her anger triggered his own. He tried very hard, but he lost it at times. At the very least he became miserable and distant when she was acting up. (I have to say that in good times, Jeff was a wonderful father. He'd play with her for as long as she wanted, and he liked to take her places, which of course she loved! He changed diapers and fed her when he was around. In those ways he was an excellent father.)

However, he lost it with Maria several times from about age 2 to age 11. In moments of rage, he'd spank her incredibly hard, scream, sometimes swear at her. In the lowest moment of all I remember he dragged her out of the backseat of our car, having accused her of making her little sister Christie cry. He grabbed her by the arm and threw her down onto the pavement of a parking lot, and just screamed at her. I could have died. It was a horrible, horrible moment for our family.

That was the last time. I had told him afterwards that if he ever touched her like that again I would report him. And I told him that that act was abuse. He didn't agree with me, he didn't like hearing it, but he never touched her again.

And when I think back to what she experienced at his hands, and what she must have felt in those moments (terror? humiliation? helplessness?), I can't for the life of me understand why she is so protective of him now, and so hateful towards me.