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Most days, I manage the emotions of living in this house very well.
Too well.
Promises are broken. Chores go undone. There are scowls instead of smiles from my partner…and I just keep on going. No problem. I expect it. I’m used to it. It is what it is.
But one of these days, some final intolerable act will push me beyond the edge of mercy and I’m going to have a fit of legendary proportions.
It will be recorded in family history as “The Day Mommy Erupted.” Stories will be written about it in the local newspapers. The neighbors will whisper about that quiet flower-growing woman who looked so normal until the day she started screaming. My outburst will be measurable on the Richter Scale. It will cause birds to migrate early. It may change weather patterns across the country.
My blood-pressure, hackles, bile and temper will all rise, concurrently, and that man will not know what to make of it. Zen me, screaming? Calm me, flailing, stomping, smashing dishes on the hearth?
Or else…I do a little more yoga. I make sure to take vitamins every day. I practice breathing deeply. I surround myself in a wall of impenetrable calm and stave off for one more day, one more hour, one more second, the temptation to cut him into little pieces with my words.
