An ode to oatmeal

The purple bowl with the
dopey-eyed lama flies
through the air, landing
face-down on the hardwood,
oatmeal exploding from all sides
like an eruption of sticky
silt landing heavy in a
circumference of at least twelve
feet from the epicenter.

The unmistakable sound shatters
the tantrum from the kitchen table
and paralyzes me in the dimly
lit hall as I try to calmly finish
putting on my clothes on a cold,
early Thursday morning.

This can be how your day starts
when you have a five year old human.
Yesterday, smooth as silk with
a child rosy-lipped and warmhearted.
Today, awoke a monster in
place of my doe-eyed girl and
we are fighting. She is angry,
and it consumes her body
so much that she can’t control
even the smallest of impulses.
Frustration culminating into a
pile of cold oats on the floor,
a metaphor for how much
she truly feels like she can’t do
this today.

Thirty minutes of her body
pouring out anger in all directions
finally lands at the front door before
we step out into the crisp air that
will surely blow away the hurt.
I hold her and cry and she lovingly
rubs my back and rests her heavy
head on my shoulder. I feel her
exhaustion, and her surrender.

–I’m sorry momma.–

All is forgiven.
All is forgotten.

And in this moment
between mother and daughter,
I realize this will become
the orbit we circle around
our entire lives.

I love you.
I forgive you.
I love you.
I forgive you.

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