I was fifteen years old the first time I called my mother a bitch ($0.25). My own daughter returned the favor when she was just four.
It happened on a hectic morning after I had told Anna to put her gymnastics leotard on as I was getting into the shower. It was inside-out, so she took it downstairs to my husband, who didn’t understand why she had brought it downstairs and told her to put it away. Caught between two mis-communicating parents and too young to articulate to either of us that she was at an impasse, she began to melt down. Eventually my husband put her in Time Out for not listening and that set in motion a series of events that forever changed the way I view my daughters, myself and women in general.