Home Schooled

He toggled back and forth wringing his hands in anticipation of the negotiations to come. Crying was not effective most times and usually raised the stakes. Yelling and screaming only irritated and perpetuated the onslaught of abuse. He hated it when his sisters got involved, they always intervened with tears or whimpered pleadings, agitating the monster further. The oldest simply stood back and waited, at 8 she was more teacher now than student for the rest of us.

Eye contact with the animal was avoided at all cost before the curtain came down, but looking into Dad’s eyes was more painful to us then any slap or verbal punch from her could ever produce -- as fear and embarrassment in your hero’s eyes never sits well.

We will wait until it is all over to look at each other.

The little one, pacing from the TV to the kitchen counter, eyes cast down, hands unconsciously washing themselves over and over, are lessons learned early on, a means of calming herself as she has yet to master her role in the production.

Although they were right in front of him, center stage, and the slapping, yelling, hitting, and throwing of things had stopped, he knew she was not through yet, as the look hadn’t left her face, there was more to come.

Dad retreated to the window, not facing mom as he always did. He hated to show his kids these tears, even at 6 years of age - dad knew his boy could read the shame in his eyes. In turn, the boy didn’t know how to let Dad know…...

Understanding his dad’s darting downward glances, he knew it was not over with. Both kept their heads low and eyes away.

A few more minutes of priceless commentary designed to humiliate, the look went out of her face.

Mom re-enters stage right, dad’s back slightly humped up covered by his brown, crushed cotton bathrobe, head still down, but alert and in the ready for one final assault -- instead the apologies set in.

The play takes a new light and the familiar, yet empty void of Mom’s conditional apology seems to please Dad, mostly because it’s over for all of us.

No shame in his eyes now, but the boy senses this is the time to have it -- isn’t it?

Now it was his turn to produce, direct, and shoot the scene he had rehearsed now for so long. With a perfect toss of humor, adjectives strung together (perfect for a 6 year old), and an effective distracting performance overall, his role is done and the family settles in for what little healing they can muster.

Humor, barren smiles, and a vessel full of deflective tools and ammunition created by these theatrics for years on end, have proven to become the boy’s armor, the little one’s heart, the barrel of a gun for the middle one, and the oldest one still today shrugging it off today. All four of us join in now, our characters in full dress, scripts in hand.

School is Out.