Not the rapper. My daughter.
I’m going to take to calling her Fitty Scent. I can always smell a FIT coming on, and it’s never far away. We’ve had to instruct her not to get “fitty” under threat of punishment in recent months. Seems the older she gets, the worse it becomes.
Now, the fits don’t last. They fizzle out pretty quick, and that’s a good thing. But she’s having them so regularly, so often, not a day goes by when I don’t have to either hear about one I missed while at work, or deal with one when I’m home. It’s a bit exhausting after a while.
I know it’s a phase she’s going through. I keep telling myself that. But sometimes it’s trying to deal with, and sometimes I just haven’t got the patience and kindness to work her out of it. Most days I can. Most days I can get her to smile and put aside whatever’s bugging her. But on those occasions when her fits intersect with my weariness, it’s a problem.
Some day I’ll look back on this time and lament it’s passing. I’ll wonder how I ever let it get away from me. How did I let those moments slip by without recognizing how precious they are? But now, in the lean hours and in the clenched teeth and taut neck, it’s hard. So hard.
So, she’s Fitty Scent for now. And when I finally don’t catch that scent any more, I’ll be a happy camper.
And will weep that day, too.