The List

I was angry. Red hot, spitting mad. My heart raced and there were white spots at the corners of my vision. It was all I could do to bite my tongue from lashing out.

How dare he? Of all the selfish.... I'm so done here! 

I yanked a notebook paper out of the nearest book and sat down with a pen. I intended to write a list of every little thing he did that irritated me, everything that hurt. Every perceived wrong, every unkind word, every selfish act.

And then I'm going to show it to him.

Writing has always been a release valve for me when emotions threaten to overwhelm me. But this...this was revenge. This list was secretly a weapon to hurt in my own way, though I camouflaged it for myself by calling it communication.

I'll ask him to write his own list about me.

Adults should recognize this as a dangerous need to keep score. As children, keeping score was making sure you got a treat for every time your siblings got one. Or, having hurt a sibling, you gave them a "free pass" to hurt you so they wouldn't run and tell mom. I was giving him a free pass to hurt me as I intended to hurt him.

I wonder what his list will look like?

I knew he'd never write the list. It wasn't who he was. I started imagining what things I did that hurt, that offended. The things I took for granted. The times I didn't consider his feelings.

The boys need me now, I'll do this later.

I was mercifully interrupted by my duties as a mother. I never did write that list...and never have, though I've been tempted to on many occasions. As I went about my day, I thought more and more about what his list would look like about me, and I began to feel remorseful. No one is perfect, and the humbling effect of having the mirror angled instead at myself made me retrieve the notebook paper once again.