My daughter thinks I hate her

This is the note that my daughter, 5-year-old Angela, wrote and slid under my bedroom door, insulating myself from her rude complaints, surely on a day when she was so hard.

I ignored her and ignored her message, I knocked on the door. twice. Then she sighed and sighed and cleaned her throat.

She said, “It’s important.” “Look under your door.”

I didn’t dare look, knowing that Angela’s special rendition would likely contain some new twist on an old topic: My daughter thinks I hate her, and she takes any opportunity to remind me that I’m the worst mother ever.

Scream, cry and groan. She paints pictures of the two of us, she looks sad and I look big and angry. She even makes songs about her.

Last week, she sang to me with a slot called, “I tried my best, I tried my worst, but you still don’t love me.” I’m no expert, but I think it might have been a country song. Now that Angela has learned to read and write, she puts her guilt in the form of obscene letters (which is nice, because I now have something to show her when she becomes a mother). I suppose I have my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McDonnell, to thank for that.

Angela’s expressions are not new. She has been declaring her disagreement with me ever since I learned to speak. She assumes there’s hate in my heart whenever I turn down her request for a second lollipop or insist that she wear underwear on the court.

On a good day, she was simply sulking in my direction. On a bad day you scream at me. Or kick me in the shin. Or you throw a stuffed cow at me.

At first, I considered Angela’s tantrums to be something to be nipped in the bud, with more hugs or discipline – maybe both. But the time-out and reprimand only added to her indignation. She hated me more. She hated me louder.

Then she took her meanness personally. I found a therapist, went on endless internet searches for information about angry babies and spent a lot of time crying in the bathroom.

As a single parent, I thought I should work hard to convince my daughter that she was loved. I was afraid that, by divorcing her father, I had somehow broken herself like a boiled egg (which, by the way, Angela hates too).

Then I realized that hate and love are cousins, not strangers. Only a person who loves me will do everything in his power to express his hatred. Only someone who adores and trusts me, and knows that she is lovable and reliable too, will put her deepest fears to paper.

Sometimes hostility is just a test. Sometimes anger is a real affirmation. And sometimes, when you learn to read between the lines, hate letters are a lot like a love letter.

Now when Angela writes a song about how much I hate her, I praise her singing voice. When she writes me lewd letters, I comment on her excellent plan. And when you’re grouchy and silly, I go back to my bedroom, realizing it won’t be long before you knock on the door.