“Leave the dog alone, August.” I say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Okaaaay!” He replies, running after the little beast once more.

Suddenly the dog is yelping and scurrying back and Mother is using her “I am not to be trifled with!” voice.

“- and you are going to time out!” THWACK!! “Oh! You want to hit me?! Okay! You are not going to hit me! I am going to give you something on your bum-bum!”

“Nooooo! LET ME GO!!!” August screams.

“NO!” Mother yells back. “You are not going to hit me!”

Dear God… Can’t I even get through one single assignment?

The screaming continues and then-

“You stupid bitch!”

Uh-oh.

As I scramble toward them, I can almost feel my mother’s rage building.

“WHAT DID YOU CALL ME???!!” Mother roars.

“I’m here!” I announce stepping into the bathroom.

Mother’s eyes are wide and August is red with rage. There is a veritable wrestling match going on in our restroom, though, at this point, it’s hard to tell who is winning.

“I’m here.” I say again. “Go now, Mom. I have him,” I assure her, taking August’s hand in mine.

Mother stands with a huff and, with a shake of her head, she walks out of the room.

I close the door behind her and turn to my little boy who has gone still, except for the occasional sniffle, and is staring down at his feet. I sit on the toilet lid and gently raise his chin with my free hand.

“Baby…” I begin. He stares at me, brown eyes full of unshed tears, then-

“Mommy!” August cries and falls into my arms, sobbing and holding on like his life depends on it.

I pick him up and hold him and let him cry, knowing that he is overdue for a good cry and that it probably has very little to do with what just transpired between him and his grandmother.

“Shh… I know you’re frustrated and that’s okay. We just need to learn some new ways to deal with it that don’t involve hurting yourself, grandma, your friends, or the dog…” I whisper. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere. And I love you very much.”

“Mommy, Abuelita is really mad.” August says in between sniffles.

I shrug. “She’ll get over it. She just wants you to know that you should be respectful and using bad words is not a good way to show that you respect someone. I understand that sometimes we say things that we don’t mean- mean things- just because we’re upset or angry, but when we get mad it’s a good idea to stop, take a breath and give yourself a moment to think before you say or do anything you might be sorry for later. What do you think about that?”

Sniffle, sniffle. “Okay.”

The house grows quiet as we sit together in silence for a moment.

“I have an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you sing your song when you get angry? The one that we used to sing when we were in the classroom and someone was upset. Do you remember it?”

“Yes…” He mumbles.

“When you feel so mad that you want to roar,” I sing, “take a deep breath –“ breathe in - “and count to four. One... Two… Three… Four.”

We sing the song together a few more times until he has it memorized.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, don’t forget to sing your song next time you start to feel like you are getting upset.”

“I will not forget.”

“You know, there is someone out there who probably is still a little bit upset. Don’t you think you should apologize to Grandma for using your words and hands in a mean way?”

August heaves a sigh. “Yes, Mommy.”

We walk out of the bathroom together.

“Go on then,” I tell my son.

He walks toward my mother with a look of apprehension on his little face.

“I’m sorry, Grandma.” He practically whispers.

“For?” I prompt.

“For hitting and kicking you and using mean words.”

“You know that you cannot do things like that, August. You are not going to have any friends if you behave that way. You need to be respectful of your elders. Hitting and kicking is not-“

“Mother.” I say, cutting her off. “August is apologizing for what he has done. He understands that it was hurtful and is attempting to make amends. You need to let him know if you accept his apology and let. It. Go.”

I see her rearranging her thoughts and visibly fighting the urge to continue her verbal diatribe.

“Grandma,” August says, walking over to her and placing his hand on top of hers. “Do you need to sing your song?”

“My song?” Mother asks, looking down at him.

“Do you remember it? You can sing it with me. ‘When you feel so mad that you want to roar…”’

I cover my mouth to hide my grin as my child begins to teach her the song.

Hey, I’m not knocking it. If it works for him, it may well work for her.

Take a deep breath and count to four. One… Two… Three… Four.

Next Chapter: It’s easy to lose sight of who you are and doubt your own strength.