My daughter Sandy was no longer in diapers, cleverly articulate, but still too young to play in the front yard without supervision. I sat on the stoop of our house with a book and a cold glass of iced tea. The heat annoyed me, but was not so uncomfortable that I would interrupt her playing. Adults should never intervene in a child’s magic. You risk the wrath of fairies and unicorns if you do. But if summoned, that’s an entirely different story.
“Mommy,” she sang to me, her voice a bell. Without looking up, tiny hands motioned that I should join her. Something was happening in the Barbie house that required her full attention.
I ventured over to her, curious enough that I put down my book without the usual irritation.
“What’s up in Barbie world?” I asked, noticing the dolls lying on the grass as an afterthought.
Sandy wasn’t interested in them. She was peering into their pink, three-story mansion, mumbling child-fantasy jargon.
“Shh,” she hushed, “quiet, please. They’re resting.”
Bending over, I squinted, intrigued.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered. Nothing but a few tiny, black ants crawling along the floors and the walls of the cotton-candy estate.
“Who’s resting?” I asked. “Tell me, maybe then I’ll see.” I wouldn’t dare declare that the house was empty. It was undoubtedly my lack of innocent creativity clouding my vision.
“The ants,” her hushed wonder was contagious.
I was not entirely irredeemable, then. The ants, I saw.
“The ants are resting?”
Nodding, her feathery curls bounced enthusiastically, a sunny golden hue. It seemed the ants were in a tranquil state, giving her a moment to look away from them and up at me, her eyes illuminated with awe.
“These ants are hurt, and this is their hospital. I’m taking such good care of them,” she praised herself, too young yet for humility. “I’m their nurse.”
I nodded in appreciation. Of course. An ant hospital.
“Why not their doctor?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Nurses keep you cozy,” she answered.
It was my turn for awe.
“Yes,” I breathed. We sat together, the grass plush beneath us, a refreshing breeze tickling our skin. The ants’ motion was hypnotic, their designs lulling us into a dreamlike state.
There is no expectation of privacy when sitting on the front lawn in a busy, family-filled neighborhood, especially on a beautiful summer afternoon. Nevertheless, I was startled when our neighbor Brandon thundered over the way little boys do, without grace or warning, radiating aggressive, confident energy… the antithesis of our calm whimsy. If we weren’t so hazy, we would have heard him coming much sooner.
Brandon wasn’t a bad kid, just older, and coming into his physical strength, while lacking the maturity of restraint.
His black Nikes pounded the grass with each step.
“What’re you doing?” he asked without any genuine curiosity. He had already decided that it was silly girl stuff.
I hesitated, feeling possessive of our fantasy, but my daughter was still too young to be clouded by baggage like that. She openly shared, absent of shame.
“I’m playing ant hospital,” Sandy said, without the vocabulary to do it justice, “and I’m a nurse.”
“That’s stupid!” Brandon declared, laughing. Quite obnoxiously, in my opinion.
“That’s not nice,” I said, scanning the street for his parents. Come get your little shit off my lawn.
In one quick movement, Brandon’s left leg stretched out as far as possible behind him, as if to tap his butt with his heel. Using the momentum, he drove the toe of his heavy sneaker square into the center of the Barbie Dreamhouse.
Sandy and I gasped, our eyes following in slow-motion. This phenomenon is no stranger to parents. Time stalls when you foresee your child sustaining an injury. Her delicate hand reached out and gripped my arm.
Despite its expense, the house was not built to last. The plastic beams and cardboard walls gave out easily under the impact of Brandon’s assault, flying in all directions across my lawn.
He paused, possibly with the temporary clarity that he would be in trouble for destroying our property. His adrenaline visibly buzzed through his clenched jaw and fists. Glaring at us, noting our horrified expressions, he bellowed again.
“No!” Sandy cried out, her voice airy and trembling.
Her distress fueled his expanding grin, the sadistic fucker. Keeping his eyes fixed on her gentle, stunned expression, he slammed down the other foot, a giddy King Kong. Then again, lifting as high as he could, thudding down and twisting as if putting out a cigarette. The blades crumpled under the weight of his heel, giving way to the dirt underneath.
“I’m killing the ants,” he declared, in case it was unclear.
My jaw hung open, flabbergasted.
As quickly as he joined us, Brandon became distracted by something across the street. With one last grande encore stomp, he deserted us without any parting words. Just as if he had come over to tie his shoe or ask for a drink.
After the initial shock, Sandy crawled into my lap and whimpered mournfully. She clung to me, digging her nails into my shoulders, begging me to undo the event. I rocked her in my arms, saying nothing. There were no words. This was one of the first of many excruciating experiences before her, and like I failed to protect her that day, I surely would fail her again. My chin rested on the top of her silky hair, a tear sliding down. The only thing I knew to do was ensure that this did not become about my pain. So I held her tight, lifting my angelic daughter into my arms and carrying her inside.
“I’ll make you some tea.”
Rachel Beth resides in suffocatingly humid Naples, Florida. She is a wife, mother, and subordinate to three bratty dogs. In her preciously limited free time, she sings in a band, writes short stories, and attempts to play the piano and acoustic guitar. Rachel is a huge fan of horror movies, musicals, and “weird-girl literature”.