Bad Day

Son had a hard day at school. His first whole morning there. When he came home, it took two hours to calm his storm.

I wanted to talk to him about his day, to find out what was bothering him, but he wouldn’t talk about it, so I left it alone.

But at night, he is lying in his bed and I am sitting beside him, “Talking About the Day”, as we do every night. And it all spills out. Everything about the day. His fight with the teacher over putting his backpack on his back, and the tantrum that followed. Then the good things, “the singing place is downstairs!”, and “mama, they had, like an egg and you put it in your hand and when you close it, it makes a noise!”.

I can breathe again. Finally, truth. He offers it to me and I hold it gently. When the day’s experiences have been held up to the light, we put them away and start counting sheep.

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