Wisdom knows no age...

He called me a cheap whore today.

My husband, who has said before that he loves me more than anything in this world, called me a cheap whore for “living off of his money.” “But I don’t have a job,” I said, “because when we got married we agreed that I wouldn’t renew my contract in Afghanistan, and I have since given birth and raised our two beautiful children. How can you attack me for not having my own money?”

But as I leaned against the kitchen counter and our kids ate their yogurt, he was on a roll: “You have the life, Mrs., let me tell you! You don’t know how great you have it! What do you do around here?” Just for the heck of it, I answer: “Oh, cook, shop, do laundry, clean the house, do your secretarial work, take car of the kids –“ “Bullshit!” he counters. “And just by the way,” I add, “I suggested that I get a job a few times and you said ‘no.’” “Bullshit again!” he shouted, incredulous, “You never listen, do you?! It’s like talking to a child! I said it’s not the right time for you to get a job! And it’s not!”

Meanwhile my poor son calculates every bite he takes, hoping that if he’s just still enough he can avoid attracting attention, but no such luck: “Sit up straight, damnit!! Maybe your mother has no manners, but you damn well will or I will take you out, Dillon, do you hear me?!!!!” “Yes, daddy,” he mumbles in a tiny, high voice. Now I shout back, telling him to go back upstairs to his cave and leave poor Dillon alone. He stays, of course, slamming things and mumbling obscenities about me as he walks around.

“Come on, my babies, let’s finish eating and go,” I say, “We have to get out of here.” Derek keeps on ranting as I quickly clean up their half-eaten breakfasts, hoist Dillon down from his chair and scoop Ella into my arms and out the door with a quickness that would have been envied in several professional sports.

I’m so pissed off; this monster attacked my babies. And I’m so angry and frustrated. I didn’t protect them. I’m their mother, and I’m responsible. They need me. And I didn’t spare them from another episode.

Distracted in thought, I drive a bit too fast towards the kids’ school, rehearsing in my mind the glorious day when we will leave this hell forever. Just like every morning, I sit at the intersection, waiting to make my turn, but the van in front of me won’t go. Okay, now, nope…NOW, nope…go NOW! Nope. Ugh! “Go! Go!” I shout, “Just go, finally, jeez!” Exasperated, I lay on the horn and like startled rabbits they gun it through the intersection. “Finally…” I mutter to myself.

Then as I make the turn and pass them I see the white habit. Behind the wheel is a nun, clenching the steering wheel for dear life. Great. That’s just great. I’ve just terrorized a nun. I’m a bad girl. I’m a bad, bad, girl, and not in a, ‘spank my ass with a leather whip’ kind of way, but in a, ‘you just terrorized a nun and you’re going to hell’ kind of way.

Ugh. I’ve got to get a grip. As I take a deep breath I hear the familiar, high voice from the back. It’s Dillon. “Mommy?” he says, concerned, “What is it?” Jeez. Now I’m a bad example, too. That’s just great. “Nothing,” I try, “No, mommy – what is it??” he presses, “Oh,” I say casually, “There was just a car that wasn’t going fast enough, and mommy wanted to go, that’s all.” “Oh,” he said knowingly, and then very sweetly, like he was talking to a mental patient, he said, “Mommy? I think you should stop yellin’ at da cars and calm down a little bit, okay?”

The smile invades my whole face. I’ve been busted by a three year old. “You’re absolutely right, my boy,” I said beaming, “Sometimes even grown-ups don’t behave right, do they?” I added. We drove for a few seconds in silence, and then as we rounded the corner to his school he said, “Mommy?” “Yes?” “I love you, but you have to be very good if you want to go to da playground.” “Okay,” I said with tears of joy welling in my eyes, “I will.”