With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Tantrums and Terrible Twos
“‘“Have a carrot,” said the mother bunny.’ The end.”
I close the picture book and kiss the top of Babygirl’s head. She’s snuggled against me with her thumb in her mouth.
“Babygirl, I told you to stop sucking on your thumb. It’s a bad habit,” I say, taking her hand in my own to get it away from her lips.
She waits a second after I let go before sticking her thumb right back where it’d been. “Read ’gain, Mommy.” She speaks around the finger I gently pull from her mouth.
“Not tonight, babes. It’s time for bed. Mommy has to do homework.” I don’t know what hit these teachers over the weekend, but every single one of my classes gave an hour’s worth of homework today and I know I have a long night ahead of me. I swing Babygirl’s legs around my waist and walk up the stairs to our room.
“I want read it ’gain!” she screeches, and I know she’s going to interrupt the Eagles game ’Buela is watching. It’s the first week of season games and ’Buela gets grumpy if she can’t watch her team.
“Emma Santiago,” I say, using her government name because it’s the only way to get ahead of her tantrums. “Yelling won’t work. I know you want me to read it again. But we’ve already read it three times and you have to learn you can’t always get what you want.”
Some days I’m convinced Babygirl has an old soul, the kind of spirit that makes me imagine she was meditating and holding yoga poses in my belly. I’m less convinced of that these days, when she’s started spending more time away with her dad. I don’t know if they’re spoiling her over there, or have jumbled up her whole routine, but it sure is an adjustment to get her back to the Santiago way of doing things after the weekends she spends away. So when she starts wailing, crying, and throwing her stuffed animals out of her crib, all I can do is sigh and count under my breath.
“You were the same way, you know? When you wanted something, you let the whole world know.”
I don’t turn to ’Buela, who stands in the doorway. She doesn’t enter the room. ’Buela lets me handle the tantrums by myself. At first, I used to get mad at her: What the hell did I know about making a baby stop yelling? But I’ve learned to appreciate her lack of intervention. She lets me be the mom.
“Babygirl,” I say, walking up to the crib. “We can read the story four times tomorrow. I love that you love reading. But right now, it’s time to go to sleep.” She responds by throwing a doll at me.
“That’s enough, Emma,” I say. I don’t use my no-nonsense voice often, but I bring it out now. “Just because you’re angry doesn’t mean you throw things at people.”
She curls up, still crying loudly but clearly exhausted. Her small body heaves with sobs, and everything inside me wants to run my hand down her little head and just read her the damn story again. Just give her what she wants to stop her from hurting. But I keep still until she quiets down, until her breathing turns heavy. Once she’s asleep I pick up the stuffed animals and place them neatly at her feet, then wipe the wetness off her cheeks. I turn her night-light on and close the door to our room. Thirty minutes wasted and it’s all the bunny’s fault.
’Buela follows me downstairs into the living room, where I replace The Runaway Bunny with Applied Mathematics: Equations in the Real World.
“I’m sorry we interrupted the game,” I say, and sit on the couch.
“It was halftime, nena. And we are looking terrible; I sure hope my boys can get it together soon.” She sits down next to me and removes the book from my hands. I sigh and put my head on her shoulder. She pats my face and I snuggle more deeply into her side.
“You want me to read to you?”
“I don’t think the Applied Mathematics textbook will allow you to practice your character voices,” I say, closing my eyes. She shifts a bit and I hear her pick up the book.
“‘Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.’”