Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Kid?

I admit it; I get a little smug about this parenting thing sometimes. Everyone always tells me how dreamy Jarrah is to be around, how accommodating, how communicative, how preternaturally mature. And I'm happy to agree. Not that I credit myself. I mean, at least not exclusively.

So those rare occasions when she joins the Children of the Corn, I am, to put it mildly, surprised. Taken aback, if you will. But more than that, I'm flummoxed. I've got no arsenal up my sleeve. (Yeah, so it's a mixed metaphor--wanna make something of it?) I'm not one of those types who reads parenting books (uh-oh, now I've confessed) or even feels that guilty about it. When things go horribly awry, all I can do is stare. Or pretend I've never seen her before.

Last night we had a "girls night out" with my friend Grace, and her daughter Julianna, 11. We've done this a lot. Julianna is not only smart and fun, she's heartbreakingly sweet with her 5-year-old friend. We always have a nice time.

Perhaps "always" is too strong a word. Because last night, there we are chatting cozily in a red vinyl booth at Ruby's Diner, waiting for our burgers, when Jarrah starts making what I call "Murder Face" and then disappears from view. She crouched beneath the table, glowering like she was getting paid for it. Ooo-kay. I asked if she was upset--no response. I asked if she felt sick--no response. Grace asked if she was starving--no response. At that point, I felt my responsibilities had been met. I continued my conversation and vaguely hoped she'd get over herself.

She didn't. The food came, and she wouldn't touch it. Wouldn't even look at it. Now she started crying. Quietly at first, but growing to full-blown, hiccuping sobs that didn't even sound fake. I was grateful it was so loud in there and that she was still under the table. I had Julianna feel her head. No fever. And frankly, she seemed too animated to be sick--she gets scary-listless when something horrible takes her down. Meanwhile, we were all hungry, so we ate our food and chit-chatted, trying to ignore the wailing that rose from beneath us. Grace said that sometimes kids cry because they're too hungry to eat. I raised an eyebrow. That just did not sound like my kid.

Did I consider leaving, or at least carrying Jarrah to the bathroom for a private audience? No, Readers, I did not. I must confess that my strongest impulse was to succumb to supreme, stink-eye annoyance. Why does she have to pull focus like this and ruin my evening? It was enough for me to know she wasn't sick or starving (against her will, anyway) to push me to a place of total intolerance. I told her I was going to call Daddy and have him come pick her up, since she clearly was too tired to enjoy our evening out. No response. I called him.

Just before he arrived, her tune changed. She sobbed that she didn't want to go home "and miss all the fun." This made me laugh, since we'd clearly all been having a blast. Suddenly, she snuggled in my lap, and proceeded to polish off her bowl of mac and cheese, a pound of fries, and everyone's garnish. I told her she was leaving anyway, because she'd made a choice, and choices have consequences (where did I get that kind of Mom-Speak? It's like I was programmed.) She cried a lot more after that, but she went.

I stayed out for a long time, shopping with the girls. When I got home, David told me that he and Jarrah had talked in the car. Apparently, Jarrah thought I was paying too much attention to Julianna, and didn't know how to tell me. Um, really? I reviewed our conversation and remembered aloud that Julianna had been telling me about her cello recital, and like any normal person engaged in social intercourse, I'd responded with little comments like "Cool!" and "Good for you!" I guess this was too much approbation not directed toward Our Lady of Unique Compliments. Who knew?

This morning, she coyly asked if I'd had fun. I told her I had, and asked her to join me for a brief conference. She doesn't like those, and had trouble meeting my eye. I explained that sometimes I'd be saying nice things to other people, even other children, because that's what nice people and good friends do. But she's still my favorite, and does everything the best. (Just kidding. I didn't say that last part.)

But it was a humbling experience for me, Readers, because I realized there will be times--possibly even in 10 years--that I will be utterly, jaw-droppingly ignorant about some tidal wave of emotion even as it rolls over my head. And that I may just do exactly what I did this time--sit there and stare. Which seems sort of pathetically ineffectual, but I guess is better than screaming my head off. Or is it? Readers, what do you think?