There’s a girl upstairs. She’s 4 years old and she throws tantrums when she doesn’t get what she wants, when things don’t go the way she planned. In her Mary Janes and white ankle socks, she jumps up and down and pumps her fists till her freckled cheeks are wet and red.

For the last week, she’s locked herself in her room upstairs.

The rest of us have been downstairs getting through the storm in our own ways. The Me who is interested in Buddhism keeps talking to us quietly about nonattatchment, and reminding us about the temporaryness of this life. One Me has been rounding the rest of us up for daily workouts. Another Me has been getting us to read, to think about other things, to read the news, trying to put all this change and loss into context. Optimistic Me has been doing her best. A Mama Me has been making dinners and putting us all to bed early.

And all the while, the Little One has been throwing herself around her room, inconsolable. We can hear her through the ceiling, rocking the chandelier, reminding us that no matter how much we sweat, read or sleep, she is still there. Reminding us that she is pissed.

Last night, she finally emerged.

She came down the stairs in her little jumper dress. Her brown pigtails were askew. She was tired. We took her into our arms and she cried into our laps. She cried until she was done. And we let her. She is loved, too.

Tue, April 17, 2007