Zoë is sitting across from me at the table: Arms folded over her chest, chin down – a serious frown announces her resistance to me and my attempts at bullying her through the last of five story problems. It’s one in which Timmy is supposed to figure out how many boxes of overly sweet raisin treats will be left over if he has thirty-four of them to give away to six of his miserable little friends. Honestly, I can’t blame her.
In a way, we are both stuck in this. I know I need a break. Yet, I feel I can’t let her off the hook. It’s just one last math problem and she is almost done. But she has had it. It’s 11:15am.
“You are making this pretty hard on both of us, wasting all this time and energy over nothing!!” I let her know. In the end, however, I do let her off the hook – both her and myself. Doing so doesn’t feel right, but it is the best I can manage right then. So, both of us are taking a break from math, Timmy, and each other.
Five minutes into the break, as I am hammering away on the keyboard in my study, Zoë comes into the room and sits down next to me heaving a sigh that seems to come from a long ways down in her belly, “I am sorry, Mom,” she whispers, “It’s just that I am not afraid of you.”
Go figure!
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