I have a fiery temper—occasionally revealing not my sharp edges but my explosive rage.
Yet I always justify it: My heart isn't bad; lacking a bit of refinement is no big deal. At work, when I lose my temper, my superiors and colleagues understand—it's not intentional, and I apologize afterward. At home, among close family, venting my anger even makes me seem more important.
After having my son, I thought I could keep being the boss, the one in charge. He's my very own little man, so how could he not respect me?
Expectations are always beautiful; reality is always cruel.
A child's primal stubbornness, with a temper fiercer than any adult's—I couldn't possibly explain to him, "Mommy has it tough, Mommy works so hard..."
Who will save my face? The agony! Looking around, I could only console myself: time to switch gears, embrace a slower pace. After all, who tied that bell around the tiger's neck? Me.