haphazardly but determinedly created. On a normal day the back wall had, about one foot above the floor, a low row of seats constructed from a light-colored wood with a navy-blue leather padded top. Inset into the frame was a set of wooden drawers to store the kids’ toys.
Today was not a normal day. Each and every drawer was open, some hanging precariously on the edge of their wooden frames, others completely removed and sitting upturned on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and toys—electronic handheld games, stuffed toys, board games, books, pens, papers, drawings, brightly colored wooden toys, jigsaw puzzles, clothes from her dress-up box, makeup, spangly bits of material, trains, building blocks, cars and balls—were everywhere across the room. Nothing looked as though it had been placed in that position; it all had most likely been thrown or dropped or kicked.
“Hi, guys,” I said cautiously.
Jaxon glanced up from his train's progress, fixed his large navy-green eyes on me, treated me to a small, shy smile that opened his mouth enough to expose his missing lower front tooth. It was definitely the largest smile he'd aimed my waysince we'd met. It warmed me through from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, lifted my heart. I grinned back, pleased he was showing in the tiniest way that he liked me. I scared him, it was too much, too soon, and he ducked his head and returned to moving his train around its track.
In contrast, his sister didn't say anything, didn't respond. When she saw me, her expression wobbled for a fraction of a second: she wanted to smile, to say hello, to slip into our friendship, but she was committed to being a terror, she was ensconced in the tantrum and wasn't giving that up for anyone. I heard Kyle close the front door and then he stepped into the room behind me. This movement was a red flag to the six-year-old and the mist of rage descended again upon her eyes, upon her face, upon her entire body. Her dad was obviously the source and focus of her rage. He'd done her wrong and she was taking a stand.
“Summer,” Kyle said through gritted teeth, his voice so forcibly calm it was transparent how close to the edge he was. Sparks flew between them; this was all-out war. “Please tidy this room up. Or come and finish your dinner. One or the other. Please.”
“Noooooo!” she screamed, her whole body folding forwards so she could force the word out with a volume that made Jaxon, Kyle and me all draw back a little.
“Tidy. The. Room. Up.”
Jaxon stopped his train's progress around its track and made to get up. “No, Jaxon, you're not to do it,” Kyle said, clearly spotting his son's attempt to put an end to this conflict. “Summer made the mess, Summer can tidy it up.” Jaxon sat down again, went back to his train. He wasn't big enough yet to use his diplomacy skills.
That would be my job, since I'd invited myself into it. “Come on, Summer, listen to your dad,” I cajoled.
Dangerous and slow, her head swung towards me; herflaming eyes threw a poisonous look at me. “You can't tell me what to do, you're not my mumma,” she said, triumph coating her words. This was a child's ultimate weapon against an outsider—reminding me that I didn't belong. Had she been a teenager, she would have told me to go do something sexually unpleasant with myself or an inanimate object.
The air thickened; Jaxon and Kyle both watched me, wondering how deeply her words had hurt me, how I'd react.
My reaction was to lock eyes with Summer. And then to drag up a smile. A tiny grin of recognition. I knew this. She was only six, but I knew what was going on and how to deal with it. Summer needed understanding. Not someone to shout at her or to fight with her, but to communicate with her from a place of understanding. I understood her.
“You're right, I'm not your mumma,” I replied calmly. “And in about eight minutes, you're going to wish more than anything that I was.”
Behind her
Today was not a normal day. Each and every drawer was open, some hanging precariously on the edge of their wooden frames, others completely removed and sitting upturned on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and toys—electronic handheld games, stuffed toys, board games, books, pens, papers, drawings, brightly colored wooden toys, jigsaw puzzles, clothes from her dress-up box, makeup, spangly bits of material, trains, building blocks, cars and balls—were everywhere across the room. Nothing looked as though it had been placed in that position; it all had most likely been thrown or dropped or kicked.
“Hi, guys,” I said cautiously.
Jaxon glanced up from his train's progress, fixed his large navy-green eyes on me, treated me to a small, shy smile that opened his mouth enough to expose his missing lower front tooth. It was definitely the largest smile he'd aimed my waysince we'd met. It warmed me through from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, lifted my heart. I grinned back, pleased he was showing in the tiniest way that he liked me. I scared him, it was too much, too soon, and he ducked his head and returned to moving his train around its track.
In contrast, his sister didn't say anything, didn't respond. When she saw me, her expression wobbled for a fraction of a second: she wanted to smile, to say hello, to slip into our friendship, but she was committed to being a terror, she was ensconced in the tantrum and wasn't giving that up for anyone. I heard Kyle close the front door and then he stepped into the room behind me. This movement was a red flag to the six-year-old and the mist of rage descended again upon her eyes, upon her face, upon her entire body. Her dad was obviously the source and focus of her rage. He'd done her wrong and she was taking a stand.
“Summer,” Kyle said through gritted teeth, his voice so forcibly calm it was transparent how close to the edge he was. Sparks flew between them; this was all-out war. “Please tidy this room up. Or come and finish your dinner. One or the other. Please.”
“Noooooo!” she screamed, her whole body folding forwards so she could force the word out with a volume that made Jaxon, Kyle and me all draw back a little.
“Tidy. The. Room. Up.”
Jaxon stopped his train's progress around its track and made to get up. “No, Jaxon, you're not to do it,” Kyle said, clearly spotting his son's attempt to put an end to this conflict. “Summer made the mess, Summer can tidy it up.” Jaxon sat down again, went back to his train. He wasn't big enough yet to use his diplomacy skills.
That would be my job, since I'd invited myself into it. “Come on, Summer, listen to your dad,” I cajoled.
Dangerous and slow, her head swung towards me; herflaming eyes threw a poisonous look at me. “You can't tell me what to do, you're not my mumma,” she said, triumph coating her words. This was a child's ultimate weapon against an outsider—reminding me that I didn't belong. Had she been a teenager, she would have told me to go do something sexually unpleasant with myself or an inanimate object.
The air thickened; Jaxon and Kyle both watched me, wondering how deeply her words had hurt me, how I'd react.
My reaction was to lock eyes with Summer. And then to drag up a smile. A tiny grin of recognition. I knew this. She was only six, but I knew what was going on and how to deal with it. Summer needed understanding. Not someone to shout at her or to fight with her, but to communicate with her from a place of understanding. I understood her.
“You're right, I'm not your mumma,” I replied calmly. “And in about eight minutes, you're going to wish more than anything that I was.”
Behind her
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