I've been told that Kate is retribution for all the sins I've committed thus far in my life. Last Saturday was the second time she has ended up in the naughty corner at her swimming class (that's twice in a row). Threats fall on small deaf ears. In her glowering fury, she is all defiance and hellfire... clenched fists, narrowed eyes, and a tiny body quivering at the sheer injustice of not being able to do things her way, and in her own time.
Kate dances to her own tune, marches to her own drumbeat, and saunters through her days alternating between triumphs and tantrums. On her good days, she's all sweetness and light - a sprite spun of the very essence of innocence. She whispers, cajoles, dimples, pirouettes, giggles and charms. But on her bad days - and there are a great many of these - it's another story. Kate in a hissy fit is a cross between a decapitated chicken that refuses to die, and a banshee that has lost the directions to the next recipient of its baleful wails. Just imagine Godzille (downsized) on a bad day.
One of her teachers once suggested that I bring her to see a child psychiatrist. Although I have no love for shrinks, I don't hate any of them badly enough to inflict my daughter on them.
But at the end of the day, when she's worn herself and everyone around her out, and she's lying so soft in my arms, sleeping the sleep of the petulant... I remember her little kindnesses, her moments of tenderness, and the way she turns and kisses me in her sleep, murmuring, "I love you"... I will always know that she is a blessing after all, albeit one which is truly in a very good disguise.
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