Jonah just asked, “Why do you have smashed blond hair?” I have absolutely no response to that question. Here in Estes land, curly hair is a badge of honor (or something). J is very proud of his hair. He is proud of his father’s hair. There are wagers as to whether or not G will also have curly hair. I am a stranger in my own home.
I’m also in an ugly mood. Jonah is home from school after puking several times pre-and-post-6 a.m. But we’ve been free and clear of vomit since then, and other than a hacking cough (which may have started the whole puking thing to begin with), J seems right as rain.
I’m glad for that, really I am. I just wish I didn’t have to reschedule G’s two year check-up (our doctor only works on Thursdays, so it’s a real pain in the ass to cancel). I wish it wasn’t the day (which typically comes along about once a month) when the sight of John makes me want to punch something hard (I will never understand the complete irrationality of that, but it’s the gospel truth).
Even when he’s trying so hard to help. He, the genuinely sweetest person I know, who struggles mightily with his own demons.
So I drink an extra cup of coffee (which is all I can manage) between saving Gabriel from himself (climbing bookshelves, climbing dressers, climbing windows, climbing Christmas trees) and pulling about thirty toys out of J’s pajamas (I stopped him just as he was heading for the crash pit to have a good roll around). Let’s see, what was in there…a couple of old cell phones, two of G’s hammers, a stuffed dog, several wooden disks from a stacking toy, a string of snap-lock beads, five mini-tires from an abandoned Cars game, two Transformers, and balls of all shapes, sizes, makes, and models. You think I’m kidding.
But I’m still yelling too much, and I hate to hear it. I’m sick of myself, in all truth. All I know to do when I’m like this is establish a little order and try to make something—a poem, a card, a pile of leaves. A driveway cleared of snow. All of these are outside the realm of possibility today, so a batch of granola will have to do.
Reminding myself I’m always crazy this way, I try to move through it. But the chaos is against me. If only I could collect myself enough to send up a Hail Mary, full of grace.
But as my son has so bluntly pointed out, I’m just a smashed blond at the mercy of some unruly curlies.