Wild Thing's Mood Swings

Begin

“What is it we’re doing wrong?” Is all they want to know with a crash and a thud from the next room. This kind of confusion and living is unhealthy they all say, but it’s all right for me, I just ignore it the best I can and try to get on with things.

There’s a door slam and what even might be the knocking over of a bookcase. I ignore that too and keep typing away, content to pretend that none of this is happening.

“Izzy, go see! Go check on The Wild Thing!” They urge and push and prod so I relent and leave the quite space in my head for later, when all of this is over and we’re a calm family once again.

I pick my way through the disaster of the living room and hallway to my room that I share with The Wild Thing. Who is actually my sister, just a few years younger than me.

I take a deep breath as I open the door of our room and survey the damage of Wild Thing’s mood swing.

Books and clothes and pillows and the wild flowers from the top of the bureau all scattered on the floor, crushed, ripped and torn. It’s not so bad this time, at least, I tell myself as I look around for The Wild Thing, there’s no broken glass or mirrors or plates. Which are The Wild Things favorite things to break; she’s satisfied with the loud crash and clinks of pulling dishes from the cabinet over the sink.
Our Mum and Dad have hid everything there they don’t want within The Wild Things reach. Our glass cups and bowls and all the sharp knives, platters and plates, even the old cassette tapes are up there above the sink, out of reach of The Wild Thing.

“It’s just crazy!” my mum says, “So abnormal.” agrees my dad as we eat dinner with our completely safe plastic cutlery.

“We’re held hostage by its antics!” Then they both look at me and say, “What do you think, Izzy?” and I ignore them both as I pick around the peas and rice on my paper plate, all the while thinking

’Wild Thing or not, maybe ‘it’ should be called a ‘she’.’ because to me, The wild thing is a she. Even when she’s ranting and raving and a being a little beast, breaking things and yelling, she’s still my little sister, just a few years younger than me.

I let out my breath and look around the room, hoping that all of this isn’t just the lull before the storm. I step into the chaos and dodge a shoe thrown at my head, which gives away her hiding place, her dark wide eyes peering out from beneath my bed.

I make it over there and bend down to pull her out, only to have the other shoe meet me first.
The Wild Thing can manage a whole lot of hostility when all you want to do is give a little bit of help.

So I shrug and sit on my bed, as if I don’t care what she does with herself, but the fact of the matter is…I’m not cleaning up this mess she made all by myself.

It only takes a few minutes of my humming and ignoring before she’s sitting next to me on my bed, her wide dark eyes asking questions, her knotted brown hair tangled with leaves, there’s really no question why we call her The Wild Thing, instead of her real name.

We’re both on the floor, talking silently, her picking up the flowers and me the torn pages of storybooks, wondering what she was really named in the first place, before she was The Wild Thing. It bothers me a little that I can’t remember a time where she was anything but The Wild Thing, I wonder what she thinks about it, or if she knows her given name…

It’s awhile before we’re both back on my bed, pillows in place and me once again thankful for the lack of broken glass as she’s hugged against me, falling asleep.

With The Wild Thing and her mood swings, some days seem longer than others…days like these.