As my daughter clung to the railing of my mother's house, screaming "save me, grandma, save me, don't let them kill me!", I suspected I may have made a wrong turn somewhere in my gentle guidance of her development.
Let me retrace my steps.
After we finished her morning work on phonics -- may I just interject here that phonics are very, very boring? -- she was supposed to have her piano lesson at her grandmother's. After her piano lesson, she and her brother were going to go with Tatty to deliver cookies to various ill members of our congregation.
All to the good. She was happy to see her father. She wanted to bring a glass of water. No, her father told her, you don't need refreshments to steel you for the five blocks to the home for the aged. You will not die of dehydration; this is not the Sahara.
We live in a rain forest.
This is where the little train started to run off of its tracks. Her father told her to get in the car. She refused. He insisted. She broke away screaming, running back to my mother's house, yelling, "grandma, save me, save me!"
By the time she was locked in the main floor bathroom, she was probably wise to lock the door against me.
Some time later she explained to me that she had attempted to hold on to her calm place, but it had escaped and run down her leg, disappearing.
Rather like she did, but with less screaming.
Then she wept for an hour.
Then something amused her and she fell on the floor giggling.
My daughter has more emotional range on an average afternoon than I have displayed in the last ten years.