There was a knock on the door.
Or there must have been, but I couldn’t hear it. Someone was crying at the top of her lungs.
About what, I don’t know. But Abby was a furious rage-filled torpedo, bounding from one room to another lost in a tantrum. I tried seeking a solution. I asked her to explain the problem, in detail and with graphs if possible. I wanted her to discuss her inner turmoil with me in a calm and reasonable tone. Of course that didn’t work. Next, I tried reassuring and consoling. I even hushed. Wine, perhaps? None of it was helping. She seemed content to see the fit through to the end. Thus I turned to the only option left; I ignored.
I once read that ignoring a tantrum is the best method. I’m unsure if this is true or not, my eardrums would lead me to believe otherwise since it makes a heck of a noise.
Settling on the screaming bloody murder method, I hid from my child in the corner of our kitchen, next to the chocolate, though her wails were still fully audible. That’s when I looked out the window, a view overlooking our front porch, and saw a nicely dressed woman dashing away in her heels. Hastily throwing her religious brochure in the handle of our door as she ran, not once looking back. And for a moment, I thought of calling out to her, “Wait, come back, I need to be saved! Save me!”. Though I don’t think that’s the salvation she had in mind.