I was at the playground today, the one near the duck pond, you know? Packed. Like a swarm of ants found a dropped popsicle. My little girl, Maya, she’s two. Running around, or rather, trying to. Her little legs churn like she’s got a tiny engine and a lead foot. Other kids, they’re digging in the sandpit, sharing those cheap plastic shovels, a red one here, a yellow one there. They hand them back and forth, no words, just a kind of silent agreement. Like a tiny, sun-drenched U.N. meeting. Maya, though. She spots a bucket. A *specific* green bucket. Some kid, maybe four, is meticulously filling it with sand, a serious expression on his face, like he’s building a miniature Taj Mahal. Maya just marches up, no 'please,' no 'can I share,' just a primal scream and a lunge. She snatched it. Ripped it right out of his hands. Kid looks stunned. Then he just starts to wail, this terrible, keening sound that cuts through the general playground din like a shard of glass. His mom, she gives me this look. This pitying, slightly disgusted, *you-have-failed* look. And I just wanted to crawl into the sandpit and bury myself. It’s not the first time. It's… a frequent occurrence. Her tantrums are legendary among our small circle of parent friends, the ones who still brave public outings with us. A friend once joked, 'Maya’s got a real strong sense of self-preservation.' She meant it light-hearted, but it hit me like a bag of wet cement. Is it self-preservation? Or is it just… me? Her dad? I grew up, you know, not exactly with a handbook. My old man, bless his working-class heart, he had two modes: work, and asleep on the couch with a beer. Discipline was a belt, or a shout. Not much in between. So when Maya throws herself on the floor because she wants the blue crayon and not the red, my first instinct is usually just… to make it stop. Give her the blue crayon. Distract her. Whatever it takes to avoid that public spectacle, that judgy gaze. Sometimes I try to be firm, 'No, Maya, we share!' But my voice, it feels hollow. Like I’m reading lines from a script I don’t understand. And then I see other parents. The ones who speak in calm, even tones, kneeling down to eye level, explaining things. The ones whose kids, miraculously, seem to actually *listen*. My wife, she’s better at it. She’s got that soft, patient voice. But she works. Long hours. By the time she gets home, I’ve often already capitulated three times to avoid a meltdown, just to get us through the day. And then she’ll say, 'Did she nap today?' And I’ll say yes, even if it was twenty minutes of me holding her upright while she fought sleep like it was the plague. Because if I admit she didn’t, it just opens up a whole other thing. So Maya’s tantrums, they’re not just… tantrums. They feel like a direct reflection of my inability to be what she needs. A steady hand. A firm, consistent voice. Instead, I’m this shaky, inconsistent thing, a weather vane spinning in the wind. One minute, 'No, you can’t have another cookie.' The next, a cookie appears just to buy myself five minutes of peace. It’s like I’m training her to be a tiny dictator, and I’m her chief enabler. And the worst part? When she’s screaming, her face purple, spit flying, I just feel this… blankness. Like I’m watching a play I already know the ending to. There’s no big surge of anger, no profound sadness. Just a kind of exhausted resignation. And then, sometimes, this flicker of dark humor. Like, *wow, she’s really committed to this performance*. And I laugh. A little huff of air. A dry, humorless sound. Because what else is there? To cry? Nah, that’s not really my style. Too messy. I looked at the kid whose bucket Maya stole. He was still sniffling, his mom comforting him. Maya, meanwhile, was happily filling the green bucket with sand, oblivious. My brain just kept replaying that mom’s face. That look. Like she saw right through me. To the core of the problem. And I just… I let out this breath, this long, slow exhale. The kind that tastes like defeat. And I wondered if Maya would ever share. If I could ever teach her. Or if she’d just keep snatching every green bucket she wanted, because her dad was too tired, too clueless, too much of a coward to say no.