Sacred/Profane Whiplash
My two-year old son Drake makes me aware on a regular basis. Of what, it’s hard to say, exactly, but most definitely aware. There are some incidents that are so beautiful, or so gratifying, that they leave me speechless. Tonight, some milk leaked out of Drake’s cup. He said “Oh, milk,” then went running off to the kitchen. My husband G. Grod followed him, only to find he had grabbed a rag and was running back to wipe up the milk. Drake then turned around and returned the rag to its place in the kitchen. G. and I stared at each other in pleased disbelief at our capable, responsible son. Yet this was also a day in which I had to give him yet another time out for yet another head butt to me–ow. He also threw a screaming fit at the grocery coop, even though he said he wanted to go there, and at each diaper change and car seat strapping in. The range between beautiful and enraging is huge, and I go back and forth along it daily.