April 30: Daughter, Poem, Pissed

We didn't get to see Water for Elephants last night because the graduation pinning ceremony went long, and then we went out for dinner and didn't get done at the restaurant until 9:30 p.m.  Our babysitter had to work at 5 a.m. today, so she asked us to come home.  We went home.

Today has been a strange day with my daughter.  She woke up pissed.  A general pissed that extended in many directions all at once, like an atomic blast.  She has alternated between contentment and pissyness all day long.  Right before mass tonight, she had another meltdown because she said she was too tired to be an altar server.  I told her make a sacrifice for Jesus and get up to the altar and light some candles.  She wasn't too happy with me.

I think she's really tired, possibly hormonal.  She is ten-years-old, and she just got invited to a mother-daughter tea thrown by the school nurse to discuss menstruation.  If today is any indication of the way she's going to be during her teenage years, we're in for a bumpy ride.

The only good thing that came out of my daughter's mood was my new poem.  It, obviously, is inspired by my daughter.

Saint Marty wishes you a little peace.  That's what he's hoping for tonight.

Angry Daughter

My daughter is angry with me,
Has stomped around all day,
Tears of frustration always near
The surface, Mississippi waters
After three days of rain,
Barely held in check
By piled sandbags.
I watch her in white robe,
Marching back-and-forth
Across the altar, lighting
Candles, arranging chalice,
Patin, cloths the way I
Slam dishes in the kitchen sink
When I lose my temper,
Hoping a plate or bowl
Shatters, makes me bleed.
I don't know what I've done
To drive her to such fury,
Whether I've ignored some
Unseen wound, a bruise
On her heart caused
By words from a classmate,
Or a slow leak, an aneurysm
In her mind from something
I said weeks ago, a joke
About the boy who shows up
At our door every day,
Asks if my daughter can
Come out to play basketball
Or touch football, some sport
That involves much physical contact.
What I do know is this:
She storms around the front
Of church like a Roman centurion
On the prowl for a Christian
To martyr, not genuflecting
In front of the tabernacle,
Looking God straight in the eyes,
Daring Him to say anything,
Anything at all.

Not my daughter, but you get the idea