To my darling, my angel, my cherub,
I’m not entirely sure why I have specifically chosen “dinner” as the topic of this letter, except that after all that has gone on today (this week, this month, this year and the year before) it came to a head at dinner.
Darling, my angel, can you possibly explain to me why you think pushing your plate across the table at me, yelling “I want pasta” as I attempt to enjoy the meal prepared for this evening’s fare is going to make me leap up and whip you up a pasta meal?
You see, and I’m fairly sure I’ve explained this rather articulately, not only this evening, but on numerous evenings in the past, that I don’t give a flying fuck if you eat it or not, now or not, or whatever. I, having eaten my meal, will be afforded the luxury of retiring to bed not hungry.
You, on the other hand, will be. So … whatever.
Having said all that, I fail to understand what you are anticipating as you stand beside my chair and scream at the top of your lungs at my refusal to respond to your rude, barely coherent rantings about “pasta”?
Do you honestly expect me to leap to attention and do your bidding whilst screeches that are nearing sound-barrier-breaking decibles shatter my ear drums and the on-the-edge mind behind it?
You think behaving in that manner will get you a freshly prepared pasta meal and not removed to your bedroom?
And once you’re in there, do you think banging on the door and screaming some more is going to entice me to pop up and want to, oh, I don’t know, actually be in the same room as you?
I guess you’d like me to arrive, baring a steaming dish of exclusive dinner for you as well? Not too streaming, of course, because we know that will just set you off on another screaming tangent, won’t it?
I’m sorry, but honestly, I don’t like being with you when you’re like this. I don’t like that you refuse to be consoled, to the point of fighting it when others attempt to calm you.
Mostly, I don’t like that you are seemingly incapable of appreciating the fact that screaming at me will not only not get you what you want, it won’t get you anything else you like either.
Remember the nuts at the shopping centre today?
And the ‘cino a little later on.
Dearest child of mine, when will you get it?
And when will you start using your words? That is all I ask. Sad and disappointed is ok. Carrying on like an arsehead is not.
Yours with love to the moon and back,