Earthmovers and Sandcastles

It’s all dark, and I have no inclination to turn on a light to disrupt my slow waking. Coffee mug in my hands, terry bathrobe on my body, sleep in my eyes. Silence in the house.

I’m up this early not for the usual reason – that is, to go running. It’s a rest day for that. No, this morning we have MOPS, and my small group is to bring food to feed everybody, and I have this weird compulsion not to bring the same stuff that everybody else always brings: sausage and egg casseroles with tons of cheese, Kringles, mixed fruit. Last year, once, I brought steel-cut oats in a crock pot, along with some items to top it with. This morning, I’m bringing the crock pot again, this time filled with warm fall fruits and walnuts. I hope it works out; I should know better than to try out an untested recipe or preparation on other folks, but I didn’t get up the energy to make it for the family earlier. Smells good, though. I can’t decide if I need to go add more liquid or not…

It’s funny how you can go from being so on your game to being completely flummoxed, and then back again within a single day, or even hours – or minutes! – isn’t it? Right now, these days, I feel like I’m doing an excellent job parenting Sam, but my skills with Gabe? Half the time, I feel like I want to crawl in a hole and hide when other people witness me trying to mother him. He’s nuts! Now, as usual, I hear from his teachers and caregivers that he’s just fine for them, but the moment I appear, he starts going berserk, throwing things, running away, cackling and hooting like a madman. I can’t get through to him! He turns off all receptors for me, just spinning crazily around me and being a wildman. Sam, on the other hand, is definitely having his moments, but I can handle them; he gets angsty, but it’s a very short-lived thing, and I can almost always say to myself, “This is only going to last five minutes, tops; keep your cool!” After the angst bubble bursts, his inner pendulum swings back into sweetness and honest remorse for anything he said in anger. With Gabe, there is no predictable pendulum, no way to pace myself. He goes to eleven, if you know what I mean.

The scary part is that in three years, when Gabe is (hopefully!) hitting the easier stage at which Sam is currently, Sam may be nearing puberty, which could well be even more terrifying. It never eases up, does it?

Hmph. Where did my coffee go? Why is this mug empty? Bah.

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