Fear

My eight year old to me:

I don’t fear my enemies, but sometimes… you really scare me.

Then tonight, as I descend the stairs, I see a fast-moving flash of black. The hallway bathroom door clicks and locks.

“I know you’re in there.”

“Sorry, Mom. It’s reflex. You scare me,” Kate says.

What do they mean? Well, these bookend daughters mean two different things. Eight year old is referring to mom sounding like jet take-off upon finding that nothing she has requested be accomplished has, in fact, been accomplished.

Sixteen year old means, “I am afraid you will have a job for me which I will procrastinate until you threaten to take away my 2500 text messages per day or the keys to the car.”

Scary or abysmally normal? I ask you.

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