Evie wanted to see the baby. I was reluctant to let her. My 10-day-old daughter had just recovered
from a mucus-heavy cold that made her breathing and my sleeping
irregular and difficult. My friend's daughter Evie had been around the wet, germy breath of
preschoolers all day and there was a month left until the end of flu season.
But it was hard for me to say no, even to a three-year-old I didn't
actually like.
"Let's wait until next time," I said, my head tilted, voice firm but
friendly. "She's napping."
Evie was disappointed but agreed. She asked to use the bathroom.
"Upstairs next to the bedroom," I said over my shoulder, as I helped my
preschooler Beatrice out of her heavy coat and boots. We unloaded
endless scraps of glittery paper from her backpack. I worked a glop of
hand sanitizer into her wrinkly palms. We talked about a snack. And we
waited.
Another few minutes went by before I decided to check on Evie. Halfway
up the stairs I heard the faint sound of cooing, maybe even a song.
She was in the bedroom. With the baby.
Adrenalin. Seething anger. I took the stairs two at a It was true. I hated Evie, the three-year-old daughter of my favorite local friend.time. Panting in
the doorway, face composed but tense, I said, "Excuse me?" It came out as a
question.
"I just wanted to see her little piggy toes," Evie said, not bothering
to look at my composed but tense face. Kneeled before the infant car seat
where my daughter had fallen asleep, Evie swept a fingertip over the
baby's forehead, tracing bathroom germs across her pouty lip.
"Please don't wake her," I said, my voice shaking.
"I won't," she replied, steady.
"Come out of there," I stage-whisper-barked. "Now!"
Nothing.
Then: "Please?" Another question.
Evie wiggled out of a squat and sat down cross-legged on the floor.
Presumably to get more comfortable. She rested a hand on the baby's thigh.
"Let's go." I tried to sound commanding, but containing rage had
weakened my voice. "Eviiiiie," I whisper-whined. And finally: "I hate
you," but silently to myself.
It was true. I hated Evie, the three-year-old daughter of my favorite
local friend. I hated this cute, articulate and smart little girl whose
stubborn will, bullying and fearless nature, and total disregard for
anyone's feelings — young or old — wrecked every encounter I had ever
had with her. I dreaded seeing Evie. Just thinking of her put me in a
bad mood. Now here she was in my home, in my bedroom, looking at — wait,
touching! — my baby. I hated her for ignoring me. I hated her for, once
again, forcing me to reckon with my aversion to conflict. I hated her
for making me hate. Evie made apparent my inability to shield my girls
from the weakest of predators — a young child. Especially for that, I
hated her.
©2007 Madeline Holler and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
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