Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

His Anger Pitted Against the World

A knot of anger sits in my gut.


An unresolveable frustration blocking any chances for rest or sleep. It all stems from the child not taking a nap this afternoon— which causes late afternoon fussy behaviors, which escalates into tantrums by evening when he doesn’t get his way over childish matters.

He is almost four, I remind myself, but he knows how to manipulate, play emotions to gain favors, play out a scene to his advantage. Tonight Ricky pulled his back, leaving me to pull Brendan out of the tub, simply dry him off, carry him upstairs. None of which fit into his schemes. Papi was supposed to do the chores, only Papi can carry him to bed, only Papi was allowed to move beyond the second landing— Brendan would not listen to words, to angry tones, to stern phrases— he bawled, squirming on the path to his bed, almost falling out of my grasp more than once.

So of course, I lost control of my temper. So of course, now I cannot sleep. All I can focus on is his resistance. His refusals. The anger he pits against the world for no predictable reason.

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