TO A HELPLESS FOUR YEAR OLD BOY…IT IS NOT OK

My mother stopped hitting me when she could no longer make me cry. For David, it was when he could physically wrest the hair brush out of her hand. Mom had a short fuse. Our house was filled with land mines and the three of us became experts at navigating the treacherous landscape. One of us would volunteer to get up first and assess the situation. A trial balloon so to speak. Then we would adjust accordingly. It was all about not annoying her. We had to be perfect or invisible. We did not spill our milk or shuffle our feet or pout. We said yes m’am and no m’am. We were polite and deferential. We sat quietly in the church pew. We did not get our clothes dirty. We did not get underfoot. We blindly obeyed and kept our thoughts and opinions to ourselves. But then we grew. We got bigger. One day, as mom was out of control, I glared at her with a combination of mocking and disdain. The more she hit me, the more intense my stare of contempt.  I stood my ground. I did not cry.  I won. She never hit me again. I think she was afraid. I might have been eight.