How in the world am I supposed to lather this child with love, offer even a semblance of positivity, when she doesn’t give me a chance?
It was 6:02 a.m., and I was already applying eyeliner. Two points for me!
Determined to avoid the fiasco of the day before, I’d forced myself out of hibernation well before dawn. It was, I’d begun to admit, a matter of survival: If I wasn’t completely prepared when the foursome cracked open their eyes, I’d wake up to howling. Because without constant supervision, someone was going to get hurt.
The aggressor? Three guesses.
For months, I’d had a recurring nightmare: our family in the therapist’s room, 20 years down the line. Dahlia, pointing an accusing finger my way: “We lived in terror,” she’d tell the counselor tearfully. “Mom was so desperate to prevent Shira-explosions that she ignored and minimized our needs! Our sister ruled the house.”
When I shared this scenario with linear-thinking Daniel, he found it amusing. “So that’s where Shira got her dramatic flair…” he’d chuckled.
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