Not Even 24 Hours

Len and I were on the tarmac at JFK, having just landed, when the call came. It was Ariel, desperately trying to convince her dad that she should be allowed to skip her Hebrew School graduation. I had said to Len hours before that I hoped we could find a way to sustain the feeling of calm and relaxation that washed over us during our parents-only getaway. We didn't even make it home before typical aggravations reached us. Things got worse the following evening, with Len unleashing his fury at Ariel for not cooperating when he asked her to practice trope with him before doing her French homework. In a typical bit of stubborn power-playing, Ariel refused, then lied, and Len just exploded. I understand why he did, but it was a miserable, regrettable turn of events. And for some reason, I was on the receiving end of the next morning's hate mail by text from my daughter. I felt so sad and deflated, so defeated and incapable. How could two parents, who love their children as much as we love ours, wind up in this situation, cornered like dogs by repeating patterns of behavior and response? Are we just too stupid to figure out how to parent? Are we too weak and too easily outsmarted? Len seemed to think I was angry with him; I was not. I am just too tired for this conflict, whether it's him with her, she and I, or some other combination. I just want what my friend Misha talks of, Shalom Bayit.