I worked for years to build this identity, deliberately arranging the pieces of the puzzle that formed my image as the unflappable, serene, ever-loving and soft-spoken mother.
But today my neighbor heard me yelling at my four-year-old son, and now it’s all over. Had I been yelling at him for doing something ghastly, like trying to choke the baby or overturn a pot on the stove, I could have held onto some vestiges of my carefully built identity.
But I was yelling at him for — I’m embarrassed to even say this — laughing. He was laughing like a hyena, and it was grating on my nerves, and I couldn’t get him to stop, so finally I just yelled. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s put it this way — I sounded a lot worse than a hyena.
He stopped laughing, my little boy, when he heard me yell. Then I wished he would continue. Laugh, I silently begged him. Don’t stop laughing because of me.
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