What If Someone Said

Right now I’m waiting outside the office of my 11-year-old daughter’s therapist, sitting on a wooden chair. Under my tush is a worn out cushion which once fulfilled its intention of providing comfort.

It’s failing.

I’m already chastising myself for criticizing her in well-meaning ways (who doesn’t want to be told they are eating with their mouth open?) that may have led her here.

Regret # 1: I wish I didn’t get so angry over stupid things when I was 11, like her. She inherited it from me. If someone told me, “None of this matters. Who the fuck cares what Erica thinks about your braids? She‘s looking at an STD by senior year,” I may have gone in a different direction.

Try to not always find fault in myself or others.

Bribing her to this therapist is my way of shouting “I take it back! Undo it! Undo it!” and try to keep the damage from spreading.