Anita Inamagua remembers every detail from that day in July. She was standing frozen in the kitchen of her home in Minneapolis, Minn., and she was every parent who has come within an inch of losing her temper. Vicente, her 3-year-old, with the body of a bull and the smile of an angel, had taken a jug of milk and painted the floor white. He then dumped a jar of pickles into the mess.
Anita dug her fingers into her eyes to stop the shower of sparks. Several years earlier, when she had felt the same welling rage, a wallop left...
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