What With the Stomping

The little angel didn't like the outfit I designed for her this morning.

I told her if she wanted something different, she'd have to go get it herself, with me not being her personal assistant and all.

MAD EYES.

STOMPING.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

Beloved and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

"We created this, you know," he said. "Literally."

And then we both yelled at her to knock it off as the stomping sounds traveled across the upstairs hall toward her room.

As I emptied the dishwasher, I saw her plaintive cheeks peeking in from the living room. I walked over, gathered her on my lap, rubbed her back.

"Do you think it's even remotely possible for you to stop stomping? I won't yell if you won't stomp."

She shook her head. I felt it rather than saw it.

"Why not?"

She wiped her nose on my shirt. "Because it makes me feel better to stomp when I'm mad."

I considered.

That's true.

"I'm learning that if you just wait a little bit, the mad part will go away and then you can go back to being happy."

She shook her head again. "I keep thinking about it even though I don't want to. And then I get mad again."

"Well, I guess it's sort of up to you if you want to think about it again. It's taken me an awful long time to learn not to do that."

"I guess I'll just stomp." She wiped her nose on my shirt again and wrapped her little arms around my waist.

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you, too."

Well, I guess stomping isn't really the worst thing in the world. She'll only be six for another few weeks. And I stomped until like yesterday.