Layers

There was an incident this past weekend. And by "incident", I mean that my daughter is three and a half, naturally stubborn, and predisposed to prefer minimal layers of clothing, despite evidence of plummeting winter temperatures. Sadly for everyone involved, though, we do not live in California...or Florida...or even Iowa. We continue to pass on the generational gift of self-loathing and social awkwardness by residing in Minnesota, where multiple layers are considered less of a fashion accessory and more of an elemental necessity. Unless, of course, your name is Lili, and donning a sweater over your shirt or sacrificing open-toed shoes for the warmth of winter boots is most assuredly a hill worth dying on.

On the most difficult child-rearing days, I feel like a caricature of myself, a crude example of humanity and motherhood gone horribly astray.What do you mean you've never had to dodge flailing kicks and tiny teeth while attempting to dress your screaming, thrashing, hysterical mass of a child? Or been made to forcibly drag your once sweet-tempered daughter from underneath a table, where she cowers and snaps like a long mistreated animal? Surely you've experienced an early morning struggle with your offspring that drove your mother-in-law to seek refuge in a bathroom down the hall, where, hopefully, the window-shattering screams emanating from her living room could be dulled by the sound of running water. No? Just me, then? There is no sanctuary from mornings such as this. There are only deep breaths, calming thoughts, and the mutual anticipation of better days.

Lili and I survived the weekend. Barely. Later that week, I received an e-mail from Grandma Kool, with the following picture and appropriately timed caption:

"I was just kidding, Mommy. I don't fucking hate you".

Hugs. Tiny arms and crooked elbows. Silent pecks on the cheek. How quickly they dispel the myth of earlier trials, the emotional tribunal of quick tempers and shared regrets. Fleeting moments that serve to fortify us, allowing our maternal armor to remain in tact for awhile longer, in preparation for the next battle of the wills.