“Wow. Mother doubted. I never knew that. She also knew I was good at designing.”
Willow passed the journal across the table open to the entry she referenced. Chad read it and stopped at the reference to the journal in the barn. “Did you know about the other journal?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you even curious about it?”
Willow paused. “Well, I know what’s in it. It has my fingerprints, how I was conceived—I know all that stuff, so why worry about it.”
“I don’t know. I thought it implied there was more to it than that.”
Chad passed his journal across the table. “The raw emotion here. I keep reading it and it kills me.”
Willow took the journal and frowned. She wasn’t familiar with it. Somehow, she’d missed this journal. Chad waited for her to comment but Willow lost herself in the text, oblivious to the world around her.
April 8, 1989-
She is sleeping again. I am exhausted. This little girl of mine is impossible to control. She’s so strong-willed. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but there is no rationalizing with her. I can’t even give her what she wants without her demanding what she hates. At this rate, she’ll be a criminal before she’s five.
Oh Lord, I can’t do this. I’m a failure. My child is so ugly—so hateful. How anyone can call a child “innocent” is beyond me. Either she’s possessed by demons, or all children are the sinners that the Bible says they are. I want to quit.
No. I don’t. I love this life. It’s working. It’s slow and hard and I’m not very good at it yet, but I love it. I just don’t love the parenting that caused it. I hate this. I don’t want to do it anymore. I find myself fighting back tears, choking back screams of rage that I didn’t know I possessed, and forcing myself not to strike out at her.
I reread all of my child development books. They all say this is normal. I can’t believe it is true. It can’t be true. There is no way the human race would have continued to grow after the advent of birth control. Abortion— I understand it now. I hate it, it’s wrong, but I can see the temptation. Do they do orphanages anymore where you drop off a child and leave it there for someone more qualified and more patient to rear it? Could I do that?
I doubt it. Even amid the rage that she ignites in my heart, I love this little girl. I see glimpses of who she should be between the moments of selfish demanding. She wants control. She’s like a mini-Eve, waiting for the opportunity to improve her surroundings by the sheer force of her will and even if it isn’t any better—well, at least it’s her way!
I sound so bitter and hateful. I despair of ever helping her conquer the anger and willfulness in her heart. I don’t think I can do it. The books tell me to affirm her wants and needs, but all it seems to do is increase the terrible rages.
Lord help. Please. Help.
Willow glanced up. “I had no idea—” Before she could continue, the next section caught her attention and she continued to read.
April 17-
She hurt herself today. I refused to allow her to go to the pool by herself and she ran. I didn’t know what else to do, so I chased. As she looked back over her shoulder to see if I followed, she tripped on her shoelace and hit her head on a rock.
I wasn’t very sympathetic. It was probably very wrong of me, but I had to keep my wits about me so I just picked her up and carried her to the kitchen. She was so subdued. Quiet and compliant all afternoon. I was tempted to test it to see if she was trying to lull me into a false sense of her willingness to obey, but I decided it was unjust.
She just asked me if the cut on her head was God’s punishment for her disobedience. She knows what she does is wrong. If I had any doubt, this would have to erase it, but I’ve never doubted her understanding of her sin. Maybe that’s the real issue. Perhaps I need to sincerely try to help her to a sincere faith in Jesus. Maybe He can work in her heart where I cannot reach.
April 28 -
My patience is at an all-time low. I have none. I’ve cried out to the Lord, but everything I find in His Word is so fully wrapped in symbolism that I don’t know what to do. Solomon speaks of beating children. I have no doubt that it would be wrong to beat her. As tempting as it is, it’s not the answer. Moses talks about stoning a rebellious son. Not happening.
The strange thing is I think that whatever I’m doing, I am exasperating her. She seems quite frustrated and irritated with me most of the time. She’ll be three soon. Three. She seems so much older. She’s so strong both physically and mentally. My Willow is a wonderful little girl, but there must be a curl somewhere in her forehead because when she’s bad, she truly is horrid.
Is it a sin not to like your child? I love her. I would die for her—forget that, I have lived for her. But… I don’t like her. She’s unbearable, and I don’t know what to do to help her.
April 30-
I cried today. Once Willow collapsed from exhaustion I escaped to the barn and cried. I screamed and wailed and threw the biggest temper tantrum humanly possible. I broke things. In a stroke of genius, I pulled the galvanized metal watering thing from the wall and I broke mason jars in it. Oh, it was satisfying. Of course, now I have a lot of glass I have to figure out what to do with, but who cares? It was so cathartic.
Now I know why God gave children to two parents. Mothers need a break from their little darlings. I never get a break. I can never be off my game. I must, every time, every situation, be alert. No one is here to do it for me. I am weary. That’s a lie. I’m exhausted. I’m emotionally spent. I cannot do this. I cannot.
May 5-
We’ve had a breakthrough. I may be able to control my Willow. While things are by no means peaceful, I now know how to control her. Last night, or the first night in months, I slept well.
It’s quite simple actually. The books I have were wrong. Either that, or Willow is just an exception to the rule. Either way, I’m doing it “my way” now. Wouldn’t Frank Sinatra and Grammy be glad?
I quit letting her win for the sake of peace. I quit letting the work I needed to do be the bargaining chip. Monday, I woke up, whipped from spending half the night forcing her back into her bed, and decided that enough was enough. I’m the mom and she’s going to do as I say even if I have to use those evil words, “I’m the mom, that’s why.”
At breakfast, I gave her blueberry pancakes. Her favorite. (See, I tried not to exasperate her.) She screamed for oatmeal. I finished making the pancakes and sat them in the middle of the table. I ate mine. She demanded oatmeal. I didn’t get up. At first, I think she was confused. Why isn’t mommy making oatmeal? It would have been comical had I not been so tired and she not had such an ugly history.
When I’d finished my breakfast, I put the plate of pancakes on the stove, put away the syrup and the butter, washed my dish, and went to get the brush. Immediately she protested. “I don’t want you to brush my hair!”
I just sat on the couch, wrapped my legs and arms around her, and waited for her to finish. It took twenty minutes, but she eventually said, “You can brush my hair now.” Something in her voice—her tone—the way she held her body, something told me that I needed not to brush her hair right away.
So, I just told her I had to use the bathroom and to do a few other thing, and I’d brush it when I got done. The whole day went like that. I didn’t get the garden weeded. I was physically spent by noon, but I kept it up. If she didn’t do what I said to do, I didn’t let her do anything else, but I didn’t let her decide when she’d obey me. She had blueberry pancakes for dinner. Cold. She decided that maybe she wanted some of the chicken I made, but I told her that until her pancake was gone, she couldn’t have anything else.
Anyway, it’s better. She still kicks and screams and tries to control things but it’s better. Sometimes I’m tempted to just spank her and see if it would help, but I think it would just make her angrier and we’d have another battle to deal with.
My child development books told me that forcing my
will on her was abusive and didn’t show respect for her as a person. It said that my job is to keep her safe and teach her what is socially acceptable, but that only bullies make others do what they want. Well, I was doing that and all I was creating was the very creature they told me not to be. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong, but at least she’s more manageable. In time, who knows, maybe she’ll be more pleasant.
Tears poured down Willow’s face. “I was such a handful. How—”
“You were a typical child with a mother who had no one to help her know what to do.”
“What would you have done with me?” Willow’s curiosity was piqued.
“Well, I wouldn’t have let it get that bad to begin with. Between Aunt Libby and Mom, I think someone would have told me what to do. I guess that’s what Luke was doing with Cari.”
Willow’s expression was understandably confused. Chad described the scene in Aggie’s kitchen and how Luke hadn’t allowed the child to answer back. “He just sent her to the stair step until we were done talking.”
“For running in the house?” It seemed a bit harsh to Willow.
“No. For arguing when he said to stop.”
“Harsh.”
Chad eyed her curiously. “I thought so too but only because her mother was dead. Once I thought about it, I realized that with any other child, I would have agreed. I was just making excuses because of circumstances.”
They read for a while longer until Willow tossed the journal aside and snatched Chad’s as well. “Bill offered to bring a movie to my house once. He said something about a laptop TV. Do you have one of those? I can’t read any more of this.”
Grabbing his keys, Chad poured her a glass of water and shouted, “I’ll be back in a bit.”
Willow sat awkwardly on the couch, reading the journal again when Chad returned with a portable DVD player and movie. “I thought you were done with those for the day?”
“I was but I saw something as I was putting the bookmark in and then I started reading, and then my leg got tired and…”
She passed the journal to him. “I remember that day. I was barely three but I remember that.”
July 31-
She lied to me today. She’s lied before but this one was different. This was a calculated lie. She thought it, planned it, and executed it flawlessly. Honestly, if I hadn’t seen her myself, I would have believed her.
I spanked her. I know it’s the scourge of the earth and almost grounds for jail, but honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. I turned her over my knee, took the wooden spoon from the crock, paddled her a couple of times, and told her never to lie to me again.
She’s been happy as a clam all day. We’ve played and laughed… She’s so delightful when she’s like this. I don’t want to whale on her for every little thing, but I think I’ve discovered something that my grandmother knew and didn’t share with me. Sometimes you need to use the direct link from bottom to brain to get something through to a toddler.
“Oh that’s funny.”
She smiled to herself as she gently closed the book smoothing the cover as she did. “I remember thinking that mother loved me, and I wanted to make her proud of me and not frown anymore.”
The Princess Bride on a tiny DVD player was an entirely different experience than the cinema. She brought a bed tray into the living room and set it between each of their knees on the couch, and Chad pulled out microwave popcorn that, of course, was useless. Willow offered to make homegrown popcorn, but Chad envisioned woodstoves and wire mesh baskets in fireplaces.
“How about a peach?”
From the video game start to the first “as you wish,” Willow was entranced. She shrieked with laughter as Vizzini insisted it was “inconceivable” that anyone could be following them. Chad lost feeling in his arm as she clutched it during the shrieking eel attack and laughed when Chad quoted with Peter Falk, “you seemed a little nervous.”
“Right. The boy has it right. I was just concerned is all.”
Her glee at the appearance of the man in black shriveled into concern as the rope fell. “‘I do not think you know what that means!’“
“Don’t trust him, Westley!”
“How do you know it’s Westley?” Chad countered.
“I’m not an idiot,” she retorted, indignant. “Wow! Isn’t the sword fighting beautiful? Their verbal sparring is equal to it—it’s brilliant!”
It took all of Chad’s self-control not to dissolve into fits of laughter, as Willow cheered for Westley and then collapsed into gales of hysterical laughter at Fezzik’s “my way isn’t very sportsmanlike.” With each passing second, the tension mounted. “He’ll never do it. That man is too big!”
The prince’s arrival annoyed her. “Go back to your castle you buffoon! I don’t trust you.”
At the test of wits with Vizzini, Willow chewed her already short nails nervously. “Oh, just drink it already. Westley lives, so take death like a man!” she shouted at the screen on her knee.
Princess Buttercup’s indignation amused Willow. While she protested her undying love for Westley, his impatience with her apparent faithlessness spurred further comments from Willow’s personal peanut gallery. “You tell her Westley. This is a fairy tale; she should have known in her heart that you were still alive.”
That was an argument Chad had never heard. His sister had often declared that true love “knows,” and even his father asserted that if she’d be truly in love she wouldn’t marry someone as revolting as the prince. However, before he could comment, Buttercup pushed him down the hill and his cry of “as you wish” sent Willow into a fit of squeals and laughter as Buttercup tumbled after him.
As the grandson complained about the kiss, Chad watched Willow’s face. She blushed, but something in her face intrigued him. She was drawn into the romance of the story—living it, as it were, with Buttercup.
“Oooooo… The Fire Swamp. I don’t like this! Now I know how Bill feels about outside! He probably learned it from this movie. I hope there are no more R.O.U.S—AAAK!”
At the sight of an enormous rat attacking, Willow’s knees flew into the air. Chad dove for the DVD player and grasped it firmly in his hands. “Why don’t we put down the tray, and I’ll just hold it up close enough for us to see it.”
“They have to get out of there. My mind knows it is going to be ok, but something overshadows it and makes me think everything is going wrong.”
The movie flew by in bursts of excitement, dread, and nervousness. Instinctively Chad put an arm around her, but moments later rearranged himself on the couch with both hands holding the player again. After you told her that people might misunderstand—don’t risk it. he warned himself silently.
“Oooo… a dungeon!” was followed quickly by, “Yeah! Boo! Boo!” as Buttercup the queen entered the scene. “The Queen of Putrescence! How hysterical!”
As Inigo Montoya found the unconscious Westley brokenhearted, Willow’s eyes teared. When they met Mad Max, she sat up expectantly. However, at the announcement that Westley was only “mostly dead,” she laughed again.
“Humperdink, Humperdink, Humperdink!”
On tenterhooks, Willow waited for the ceremony to begin. “No! Hurry, Westley—” was cut off with the opening sounds of the priest announcing, “Mawwiage is what bwings us togever today.”
Chad actually enjoyed watching her watch the movie as much as he enjoyed the movie. He quoted with the priest, “Wuv, twue wuv…”
“What a coward,” Willow said disgustedly as Count Rugen ran. Seconds later, she screamed for Westley to hurry before Buttercup killed herself. “Goodness, girl, get a grip on yourself. No one wants to be smothered like that!”
“He’s not complaining,” Chad muttered under his breath.
Willow started to reply but Fezzik appeared. “He is so sweet!”
The credits rolled. Willow sat in thoughtful silence. Chad noticed and, against his better judgment, asked “What’s wrong?”
“Five perfec
t kisses? This is better? What’s so big about a kiss anyway? Two lips smashed against each other—well, kisses like that. Whoop-dee-do.”
“Well maybe you’ll think differently after you’ve been kissed.”
She gave him a look of absolute disgust. “I’ve been kissed for heaven’s sake. What kind of mother do you think I had?”
“It’s not the same, Willow,” he said laughing as he removed the movie and replaced it in the box. “It’s not the same.”
As she lay in bed thinking over the movie, reveling in the beautiful clothes, the chivalry, the treachery, and suspense, Chad’s words continued to echo in her mind. “It’s not the same Willow…”
“Hogwash,” she muttered to herself. “Smashed lips are just smashed lips. He’s pulling my leg, so I’ll make a fool of myself and kiss someone to prove me right. I won’t give him the satisfaction of laughing at me.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Willow hobbled into the waiting room and glanced around her. “Darla went next door for coffee,” Lila, the receptionist, said as Willow stepped to the desk and asked.
“I need to pay for today and last Thursday.”
“A Mr. Franklin called to take care of it,” Lila assured her. “He made an appointment for you in Rockland for this afternoon…”
“Yes. I wasn’t ready to go, but apparently people don’t care about little things like housework and—”
“And ambulation.”
Willow’s face pinked slightly. “Ok, so maybe you have a point.”
Lee Wu burst into the door. “Ok, so I’m late. I saw Darla and told her I’d take it from here. Let’s go!”
Halfway to the road between Fairbury and Rockland, Willow wondered aloud whether they’d have time to stop at Boho. “Oh well, I didn’t bring the sketches anyway—”
Lee whizzed down a side street, took two rights, and turned left back onto Market Street. “Let’s go get them!”
Past Forward Volume 1 Page 35