Growing Pains

Not this again.

I took a deep breath and studied what had by now become routine. “Joana,” I crooned. “Please get out of your sadness…uh, divot, or whatever, and-"

“It’s a sorrow PIT,” wailed Joana, her sleeved arms flopping in defeat. “You’re such a jerk, and you know it!”

“Hey, hey, take it easy, chicky.”

Joana gave me the hairy eyeball as she shifted her hips. She sniffed. She hid her face once more. Her head resembled an octopus, the way her dark curls spiraled out. And I was her wretched lobster.

Over a distant howling, I spoke in staccato. “If you don’t get up from your DIVOT.”

Joana growled.

I fed upon her vexation. “That’s right,” I said, hands on hips, voice slightly cracking. “If you don’t get up I… I will…” I scanned the backyard. Would I threaten to dismantle the swing set? No. Too labor intensive. Maybe I’d make her eat a worm? That felt extreme. And labor intensive.

“What are you gonna do?” came Joana’s muffled shriek. “Make me listen to your horrible singing? Like last time?”

“My singing can’t be any worse than the Jefferson's dang sheepdog.”

Joana paused to think.

Jerk.

My words became darts, thrown by a madman. “You know what I'm gonna make you do? I'll tell you right now! I'm gonna-. You're gonna-. You... you'll... you are going to... re-gravel the driveway!”

Joana’s head popped up like a gopher fresh from tunneling. An ant made its way across her left ring finger. A gnat darted by her ear. Joana remained perfectly frozen.

"Well, come on then!" I said, growing ever more confident in my parenting skills. "I'm the mom and what I say goes!"

Joana seemed to ponder the validity of my statement. Satisfied with my credentials, she crawled her way out of the hole.

Her dress was covered in grass stains. This evening I'd teach her the wonders of running the laundry on cold. I'd need to remember to tell her to kick the dryer twice to ensure an even dry.

Joana took a few cautious steps towards me and bowed her head. I exhaled through my nose and smiled. Placing my hands on my daughter's shoulders, I guided her to the shed.

The door nearly fell off its hinges.

Joana turned to face me, a look of puzzlement on her face.

"That's how all shed doors work, honey," I said. When she looked away, I shrugged. I hadn't opened that door since Mark left us years ago. There was never any need.

"You'll probably want a shovel," I said, "so grab the first one you see."

"Will I want gloves?"

"Nah."

Joana pooched her lips. "Can I want gloves?"

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Whatever helps you obey, sweetie."

Joana grabbed two shovels, a pair of gloves, a hammer, a bucket and a rake. I shook my head and closed the door behind her as she pouted her way to the front of the house.

"If you're going to carry shovels and rakes, actually carry them, Jo!" I called after her. "I'd rather you not scrape up my grass!"

Joana laid the tools across her shoulders like a yoke, reached for the bucket by her feet, and promptly tipped over.

***

We'd been outside for much longer than planned. The sun had abandoned the front of the house to inspect the source of our backyard argument, the Jefferson's dog had retired for the evening, and Joana's work was far from done.

My eyes were sore from all the glaring. I'd come to regret choosing a punishment I needed to oversee. I had to sacrifice a long-planned afternoon of gaming and it had now soured my mood.

I pulled up a lawn chair by the rose bushes and drowned my woes in a glass of lemonade. “You are doing great, great work,” I slurred. "The way that the gravel... and the driveway..."

“Is what you're drinking really lemonade, Mom?”

I scoffed. “The sun makes my mouth sweat.” CRINGE. I stammered for a recovery, “It- it’s a thing. Don’t look it up.”

Joana smacked the ground with her shovel and startled herself. A “gah!” escaped her lips. She picked the shovel up again. With one hand she twirled it about, making lazy lines in the rocks. She squatted to better examine a passing caterpillar.

I cleared my throat and ruffled the pages of the book I’d been pretending to read.

Joana squinted and huffed. “Who ‘re-gravels’ anything?” she whined. “Is re-gravel even a word? Why do we even have this kind of driveway? You only ever see gravel on TV!”

I grimaced. There were some clear gaps in my parenting.

“And how am I supposed to re-gravel without new gravel?”

Joana had a point. I pursed my lips and hid fury behind thick shades. “Honey,” I more stated than responded, slamming the book closed. “Just forget it.”

“So, I can return to the pit?”

“No!”

“Why not?!”

“Because we don’t have a fence high enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I began words but thought the better of them. Joana cocked her head and scratched her tangled hair. She looked almost completely like me with her blank expression.

“Just…just…quit lighting candles near your divot, sweetie. It looks like you’re hoping to conjure something.”

Joana squealed and ran her bony legs to the backyard.

“Hey Siri,” I said, lifting my phone. “Remind me to fill in that divot.”