Bellwether

I ball my fist and clench my teeth, willing the burst of frustration back down my throat. "Come on guys," I say tersely. "Time to get dressed."

The clock is marching forward.

We are running late, later, so late now.

It finally bursts out. "COME ON! YOU NEED TO GET DRESSED!" I yell. Please know that the caps-lock doesn't really convey the force of those words, the volume, the seething frustration. The girls immediately feel it, shoulders bunched, brows furrowed. I see Violet try not to cry. I see Madeleine stop and scowl. "You don't have to yell," she scolds me. "Nobody likes to be yelled at, you know."

"You don't listen until I yell," I insist. "I've asked you nicely to get going a thousand times this morning, but you didn't get moving until I yelled." I'm not yelling now, but still loud. "You guys never listen!"

This isn't true. But right now it feels like the truest thing. The yelling feels justified. How else am I going to get them out the door? This is their fault. Not mine. I'm so frustrated now that I am using more force with everything, dropping their backpacks onto the table with a thud, thunking cabinet doors shut, tossing their shoes down on the floor in front of them.

Eventually we do get out the door. We are not late to school.

Later on the playground, I find out that Violet balled her little hand into a fist and swung it into another boy's face. She pushed a kid later during PE.

"We're not violent and she's not exposed to violence," I tell her teacher on the phone that afternoon. "I just can't understand why that's her first reaction."

I hang up and try not to cry. Guilt covers me like a heavy cloak, but I am not sure why.

When I talk to Violet about it, all she can say is that she just got frustrated. She just couldn't handle it. I ask how it feels when she's frustrated and she says she doesn't know. "Do you feel tight inside, like something is all clenched up like a fist? Does your heart speed up?" Violet says she doesn't know.

I talk to her about the idea of keeping a calm heart. How important that is.

I start to feel like a hypocrite.

The next morning I resolve not to yell at the girls when they're getting ready. I decide that being late is a natural consequence for their dawdling. Maybe a tardy slip will convince them to listen to me when they're getting ready in the morning.

I don't yell. The girls get dressed on their own. We get to school, and while we get there later than I would like, we are not late.

The next morning, I do not yell. The girls get dressed on their own. We get to school and we are not late.

We do it again the next morning.

And the next.

This morning, Madeleine said, "I'm glad you aren't yelling anymore." I glance at the clock. We are going to get to school later than I want, but my heart is calm. I smile at her. "Me, too, kid."