The Book Of Ruth Chapter 17: Sugar and spice and everything nice

Ruth sits at my vanity. She sprays glass cleaner on the mirror. She knocks it over. Gentle, sweetheart. More gentle, please. Okay mommy! I’m just cleaning!

She chants something under her breath. Independent girl. Independent girl. Independent. Girl.

Another day, I tell her if a friend hits her or says unkind things she can say, stop. She can take space from anyone who makes her feel bad in her mind or body. She blinks.

I get frustrated after a twenty minute melt down where we just cannot find the right way to communicate. I scoop her up and put her into bed. There was tension in my fingers. More gentle, please. I say to myself.

She skips down the street. She looks back to make sure I’m there. Her blonde hair flies in the wind and whips her in the face. Stop that, wind! I don’t like that! She screams. She only speaks that way to things that can’t fight back.

She will learn jui jitzu. We decide. It seems bizarre but necessary. I want her to be able to fight from off her back, Thomas says. A tear runs down my face.

I say that’s enough. I’m cracking down on snacks. She needs to eat more vegetables. After bedtime I reach for the Cheetos and slide the kale into the vegetable drawer. She asks for yogurt covered gummies for breakfast and I say…okay.

She tells me a little boy knocked her over in the school yard and it wasn’t okay! I ask her if she told him that? She heads to her play kitchen. Do you want milk in your coffee, mommy? So eager to serve. I try to bring it up again, but the moment has passed.

She wipes my hair out of my face as we lay in bed together for the first ten minutes of our day. You sad, mommy? Just a little, baby. She pats my head. One of the pats is more of a hit. Sorry sorry! She screams.

Her pre school class send out a letter telling us the kids are hitting and biting more than they’re used to. I run to talk to the administration because I can’t help myself from panicking. They tell me she doesn’t ever hit or bite or push but she laughs when the teachers tell her what to do. I drive home.

I look myself in the mirror. They greys have spread like wildfire across my scalp almost as feverishly as the little lines across my face. I’m careful not to scowl or comment on it in front of her. She is so beautiful, may she never think otherwise.

Mommy come, come. She waves her hand at me. She tells me to get into her crib. She puts a blanket over our heads. We’re hiding from the dino, she whispers. Shhhhhhh. He’s coming for us.

I walk the dog at night. I put one earbud in my ear. I scan the perimeter. A hundred pound dog should be protection enough? I wonder if I’m still fertile. I hope not.

I think back to my first day of theatre school. I was 17. An 18 year old girl asks where I’m from. Now that you’re here, she says, you need to know the rules:

Never walk home alone.

Look everyone in the eye.

Pretend you’re on the phone with someone.

And hold your keys in your hand like this. Understand?

I nod.

One night I break a rule and walk alone to meet some friends at a bar on Spadina. A white car slows down and drives beside me as I quicken my pace. Before I know it I’m running the opposite way. The car reverses down the street after me. Someone screams, get over here bitch! I run all the way to the bar. I catch my breath right inside the front doors. I check my hair in my compact and fix a smile on my face to greet my friends. I'm lucky. Nothing happened.

I tell Ruth the anatomically correct names for her body parts and read her books about physical boundaries. How to enforce them and what to do if someone crosses them. I try to make it fun.

Her teacher tells me she’s closest with the kid who is having the hardest time with hitting. What is going on?

I read they’ve lowered the age of consent from 18 to 9 in Iraq.

I think of all the loud talking I’ve done over the years. The opinions I’ve shouted from the rooftops. The boys I’ve tried to charm into understanding. The ones I’ve pissed off with my opinions. The way I haven’t been able to find the words over past six months. Pussy got your tongue?

I’ve developed a cough. Something catching in my throat. I stop to swallow. It hurts when I read her bedtime stories. I don’t do the voices like I used to. Okay Ruth, time to say goodnight to our books. We’re all done. One more, she screams! I concede, knowing it’s the wrong move.

I tuck her in. I lie down beside her crib and rub her hand as she stares at me before drifting off to sleep.

She calls for me in the night like she always does. I’ve stopped checking the clock. It doesn’t matter what time it is. I know it's the witching hour. I stare up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come and an image of her in the schoolyard flashes in my mind’s eye. Her little back to the fence watching someone push a little girl out of his way as they run.  She stands there watching, calling for me. Before I know it I’m asleep.