Justin's been in the bathtub for over an hour, singing at the top of his voice, building intricate designs on the edge of the tub with a set of wooden pattern blocks. He calls me in to show me his creation. It's multi-level and amazingly intricate. I come in to admire it, Emily at my heels.
      She reaches out to touch it. Justin screams, "No!" with such vehemence, it draws her like a bee to honey. She looks at him, smiles, then reaches for the blocks again. He sits up in the tepid bath and shoves her as hard as he can. She collapses backwards on the cabinet, sobbing in pain and outrage.
      Without thinking, in one fluid angry motion, I smash my hand against the blocks, flinging them angrily into the water. Justin starts to wail. I pick up Emily and carry her into the kitchen, instantly horrified at what I have done.

      I have always been the staunchest advocate of Justin's imagination. We have spent hours building together. I have always loved and protected his creations. Now, in a moment of rage, I have destroyed something he lovingly built with his own hands. I have betrayed something deep between us.
      I carry Emily back into the bathroom. I know I have to face him. "I'm so sorry," I begin. "I had no right to do that. I love what you made. It was beautiful and I wrecked it. I got so mad when you hit Emily that I lost control myself."
      Justin is shaking and trembling in shock. He won't let me come near him. I have to physically stop him from hurling the wet blocks at me. He screams, "You're never coming into my room again," the most extreme epithet he can muster.
      I hold Emily and stand there, watching his wet rage, willing myself to stay fully present, to witness the pain I have inflicted on this child I love more than my life.

      Ten minutes later, Justin is still screaming in the bathtub. Joan comes home, takes one look at the scene, picks Emily up and silently takes her to bed.
      Justin and I are alone. I gradually coax him out of the water, into a towel. I carry him to his bed and sit down next to him. He is sobbing and wiping big wads of mucus out of his mouth. I don't think I've ever seen him so upset. This is not an incident he is going to forget.

      I'm brought back to a retreat I went to with my Temple Youth Group when I was fourteen. The first day, our Rabbi led into a giant room with tables set up inside. On one table was Tinkertoys, on another, play dough, on a third, collage materials, on a fourth, blocks. He divided us up into small groups and sent each group to one of the tables. We were given forty minutes to create something silently as a group.
      At the end of the allotted time, we were brought back together to talk about the experience. Then we were asked to be silent again, and were given five minutes to look at the incredibly beautiful things the other groups had made. Then came the instruction, "Okay, now destroy what you see."
      In one minute of wild, excited frenzy, we wrecked everything. The blocks were scattered, the play dough smashed, the collage shredded, the Tinkertoys strewn across the room. It was exhilarating - and then devastating. The Rabbi called us back together to talk about how long it takes to create beauty and how swiftly things can be destroyed.
      It was a lesson I never forgot.
      I tell Justin this story in great detail. He listens intently. But as soon as it is over, he starts to rage once more.

      Joan comes in, sits on the bed and says, "When something really hard happens between two people, sometimes it helps if a third person helps them talk it out. Justin, what do you have to say to Mama Vicki?"
      "I want you to control yourself so nothing like that ever happens again." He pauses, then continues: "I've lost two-thirds of my trust in you, Mama."
      "Vicki, what do you have to say to Justin?"
      "I'm sorry I did that, and I'm going to make sure I never do it again."

      Half an hour later, we are still talking. Justin says, "When something this big happens to me I need to talk about it for a long time."
      "Okay," I tell him. "What else do you want to say?"
      "I want to know what happened for you tonight."
      "I learned that I could really, really hurt you and that I could still be your mother and take care of you. You learned that I could really, really hurt you and that I could still be your mother and take care of you."
      I pause, then continue, "And both of us have something to learn about dealing with our anger. What I did to you wasn't okay, but what you did to Emily wasn't okay either. No matter how mad you are, it's not okay to hurt her like that."
      "I know, Mama."

      It's late, past eleven, and Justin can't sleep. I ask him if I can try to help. He nods in exhaustion. I say, "Take all your angry, upset feelings and imagine that you're putting them in a beautiful velvet box. Now close the lid tight and put it up on a shelf. That way you can rest now and your feelings will be safe. And if you need to talk more in the morning, we can."
      Justin closes his eyes. I can see him imagining the box. He's whispering to himself, weaving the magic. His whole body settles, relaxing on the bed. I lay down next to him, exhausted, too. Our legs gently touch. Our breathing lengthens. We let the evening slide away and the night healing begin.