That Look

My daughter was recently throwing one of her spunk fits, so I told her to go to her room until she was ready to listen and be kind.  Normally, she'd stop mid-fit to plead with me, I'd insist that she go to her room, and she'd sob her way up the steps.  This time was different.
After telling her to go to her room, she took a deep breath and shot me a terrible glare.  Her face began to glow deeper shades of red, and I could see the veins popping out on her neck.  It was as if she was screaming at me while holding her breath.  Then, her eyebrows went into an angry "V" formation and she started to tremble.  Woah!  What is that look?  What is happening?  My body was frozen still (thank God), but something inside me tried to leap out and tackle her to the ground.  I say that in a bit of jest, but I seriously got a wave of anger so intense that it gave me chills.  I hadn't experienced this with her before, but something about it seemed strangely familiar.

Poker Night at Our Place - Circa 1987
Me, My Dad, and My Sister (Top Right)

A short while later, I made the connection.  I had given my father the same look, but with disastrous consequences some 30 years ago.  It was like I could see my own 6-year-old self going nuclear through my dad's eyes.  This is what it must have been like for him that day.
He and his buddies had been partying one night, and as usual, I was in charge of the music.  He was definitely a vinyl guy through-and-through, which always made changing albums a risky proposition for me.  I was pretty clumsy around the record player, and it didn't help that it was tucked underneath the TV stand.  I had to kneel on the floor to reach it.
His Eagles album had just finished, so he asked me to put on some Skynnrd.  It was late and I was tired, so there were a couple of blips in the changeover.  Dad lost his cool, wheeled around from the poker table, and started yelling at me.  I'm not sure exactly what he said, but I'd bet it included a couple F-bombs and at least one "numbnuts"...there was always a "numbnuts".
That's when it happened - exactly what Charlotte had just done to me.  That look.  I took a deep breath, closed my mouth, and shot him the most hateful stare I could manage.  For a split-second, it felt good.  I could see that he was shocked.  I wanted to hurt him.  In that moment, I was so mad that I wanted to flip his chair over on him.
Suddenly, his eyes got really big.  In fact, it seemed like his whole face doubled in size and became instantly red.  Oh no.  I hadn't thought this through.  He leaned forward in his chair, grabbed his joystick, and started wheeling towards me.  I was frozen.  I couldn't move.  The impact drove me back into the TV stand with such force that it overturned.  He was still coming.  We both crashed into the wall.  I ended up under his chair, and his leg rests hit the wall so hard that he busted the cover off of the electrical outlet.  I remember that part because I got blamed when his girlfriend's 2-year-old son stuck his hand into the exposed socket a few days later.  The record player and TV were toast too - both my fault.  His buddies left.  "Party's over."

The amount of anger that I am capable of feeling scares the crap out of me.  Is anger hereditary?  I wouldn't be surprised if it was.  I've experienced what that anger did to my father, and I just pray that it doesn't happen to me.  I hope my daughter forgets that look she gave me, and I'm grateful that I didn't do or say something that would make it memorable for her.  I suppose I'm also grateful to have experienced just how hurtful this rage can be to others.  I can understand the pain it leaves behind long after the bruises have healed.  It has given me great caution when I get angry.  Sure, it may actually make me a bit more of a softy or pushover than I want to be, but I think it's much better than the alternative.