This morning I yelled at my youngest daughter. She wouldn't put her shoes on when it was time to go to school. She dawdled by the table. She dawdled in the family room. She said she didn't have to put on shoes because she was going to wear sandals. It was past time to be out the door. Sandals are shoes, I said. Put them on. I was supposed to be concentrating on making her sister's lunch. We were both running late. She said stop talking to her and then she would put on her shoes. But then she did something other than put on her shoes. I shouldn't have yelled. I yelled.

I do this sometimes -- yell. I don't feel good about it. But I get frustrated and it comes out before I know what I'm doing. Sometimes a yelling fit haunts our house for a long time after.

Once my daughter opened the back door to let the dog inside and then forgot to close it. Five minutes later we saw the door hanging open and made a frantic search through the house to find the cats. I panicked. And I yelled at her about being more careful with the door. She's 5 years old. I'm stupid. One of our cats had gotten out. He was gone ten days. We all felt awful. We thought we'd never see him again. The night the humane society finally called to tell us the cat had been found, my wife and I had gone to an event, and the kids had a baby-sitter. Before we left I heard my daughter telling the baby-sitter about our cats. "Ollie ran away," she said. "It was my fault."

She still remembers that. No matter how many times I've apologized, no matter how many times I've told her no, that it was my fault, that Ollie hadn't gone very far at all until I spotted him in the yard and ran to catch him like an blundering idiot, only to chase him out of the neighborhood for good. I heard her tell someone the story six months later, after our cat had been home safe and sound for a good long while. "One time Ollie ran off. I left the door open."

Last night my daughter had a bad night's sleep. Two nights ago she sat in our backyard sandbox for 10 minutes without bug spray and got eaten alive. She has five mosquito bites, which are driving her crazy. She got up at 11:45 p.m. and said she couldn't get comfortable, and I told her she had to try, and she did.

This morning the mosquito bites still itch and burn so she had a little children's Benadryl. She was tired and cranky and feeling lousy, and I shouldn't have yelled at her.

Some days she has a bad time at school. She gets frustrated with her friends and some days she has to cool off in the play kitchen and some days she plays alone on the playground and some days she doesn't seem to know which kids are her friends and which kids aren't. It's so easy to forget how agonizing and difficult this is as a kid, and so important not to. You know what doesn't help put someone in a good frame of mind to face a day of school with a group of moody kids and their unpredictable alliances? Getting yelled at about your shoes.

It's almost time to pick her up from school. I am planning to get out of the car and give her a big hug and ask her about her day. I hope it turns out to be a good day despite my hollering. I will tell her I'm sorry, that I shouldn't have yelled at her. I won't say, like I sometimes do, "I'm sorry that I yelled at you but you really should have put your shoes on." I'll just say, "I'm sorry I yelled at you." Then I will take her to her favorite restaurant for lunch. While we wait for our food I'll offer to read her a few chapters of "A to Z Mystery # 13: The Missing Mummy," which we checked out from the library last week. I'll make sure I have a quarter to buy her a gumball. Then we'll stop on the way home at the grocery store for the things we need: dish soap and tissues, almond milk and taco shells. And a generous supply of latex-free Band-Aids and anti-itch cream to deal with all those mosquito bites.

(May 26, 2010)

Scott Beal is a stay-at-home dad.