WHY DID YOU SLAM MY DOOR?!
I had just dropped off some stuff at the high school, and was walking out the door. It was early morning, but the busses were gone. Some late stragglers were coming in, being dropped off by their parents.
One such straggler was heading for the front door of the school as I was coming out. But he was stopped cold in his tracks by his mother’s voice behind him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” she shrieked. “WHY DID YOU SLAM MY DOOR?!”
I hadn’t heard any door slam. I was right there, but I hadn’t heard anything at all. Until the shrieking.
I couldn’t hear the boy’s mumbled response. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and a tired face.
The boy walked back to the small, red car. The passenger side window was down.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” came the deep, growling voice from inside the car. “YOU CLOSE THIS DOOR PROPERLY!”
How much control do you need? I thought. He’s a teenager. How much longer do you expect him to be closing the door the way you want him to close it?
The boy opened the car door. Then he slammed it as hard as he could, and walked toward the school.
Good for you! I thought. At least you’re standing up to her!
“DON’T YOU SLAM THAT DOOR!” his mother growled. “JACKASS!”
I felt a pit rise sharply in my stomach. You’re calling him names? I thought. That is your BABY and you’re labeling him forever as a jackass? Do you really believe that your baby is a jackass?
I know having a teenager is frustrating. And I know how it feels to be out of control. But screaming uncontrollably in the parking lot about a slammed door? Swearing and name-calling? Is that really something you have to do?
Where will it end?
I was headed an entirely different direction in the parking lot, but I wanted to walk up to her car. I wanted to say, “Is this boy really your child?” Because I didn’t believe that someone who gave birth to a precious little baby boy could be so heartless. How could she not see what she was doing to him?
But she didn’t let up, not for a moment.
And she was still screaming. As I was getting into my car, the boy who had slammed the door was rethinking what he’d done, and walking slowly back to the small, red car.
And there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing to stop her from ranting and shrieking and screaming for control. Nothing to alleviate her fear. Nothing to bring back the tenderness she needed to move forward, to bring back the love she drove away, nothing to help her find peace.
Most importantly, there was nothing I could do to help that boy.
She’ll just keep screaming, until he’s gone.