Chapter 6 - My Kick
The prosecutor offered diversion.
Misdemeanor battery.
I accepted.
No injury beyond Lenora’s bruised hip and scraped elbow.
No prior record.
Terms:
Twelve-week anger-management course.
Twenty-four hours community service.
No unlawful contact.
Restitution of $186 urgent-care copay through counsel.
Dismissal after completion.
Some friends said:
“I would’ve kicked her twice.”
I stopped telling them details.
Validation can become gasoline.
I did not need people praising the exact thing I was trying to teach Cade was wrong.
Dr. Cole helped me explain.
“Mom kicked Grandma.”
“Yes.”
“Because she pushed me.”
“I was furious because she pushed you.”
“Then okay.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“If somebody is hurting you, I can use reasonable force to get you safe.”
“What reasonable?”
“Enough to stop it.”
“Kick?”
“Maybe if that’s the only safe way in that moment.”
His eyes lit up.
Children love loopholes.
“But after I had you upright, Grandma wasn’t pushing you anymore.”
“Oh.”
“I kicked because I wanted her to feel what I felt.”
“Mad.”
“Yes.”
He touched my hand.
“You go class.”
“Yes.”
“Grandma class?”
“Probably different.”
He smiled.
Then:
“Daddy class?”
“Daddy is doing therapy.”
He considered.
“Everybody school.”
Basically.
My class focused on:
Protective anger versus retaliatory violence.
I hated how neatly it fit.
One session:
“What message did your kick send?”
“That I will protect my son.”
The facilitator waited.
I sighed.
“And that if someone hurts you, hurting them back is one way to show love.”
“Do you want Cade learning that?”
“No.”
May you like
There.
Work.
