The big bang theory goes something like this: there is this tiny, irrelevant thing, this little speck of something, that one day explodes from within. It explodes and becomes everything, overwhelming and unyielding and unstoppable. It stretches and expands and writhes in its own energy. It is so much, so strong, so powerful that it cannot control its own creation. It is a slap of chaos and life. In your face.
And that is what happened to me thirteen and some odd months ago. There I was with my fussy, sweet, gurgling baby boy, and we decided to give him a brother. As I sit here and try to wind my thoughts together enough to return to writing, I am struck by the fact that my whirling dervish of a son has taken over so much of psyche lately that I feel slightly dumb. And while I've always felt a bit awed by his presence, I lately have felt more and more that he is an alien child, from some other planet. He is my greatest challenge, and puberty has only magnified his essere to epic proportions.
My son's latest injury is a broken collar bone. My son's latest statement is that most of his teachers are stupid, and don't even understand the theory of relativity. He is a raging thirteen year old with a brain lit up like the Las Vegas strip. He is obnoxious and immature, and at the same time brilliant and provoking. He can debate me into a corner, and I often find myself forgetting that I am the (supposed) adult in the situation. If it weren't for my husband's firm grip on reality, I could easily find myself asking his permission to stay out until 10.
One day when I picked Dana up from preschool (he was 3 years old), he asked me where I had been that day. When I answered "nowhere", he immediately told me I wasn't telling the truth. After all, the odometer was proof. I had traveled 109 kilometers that day. I surely must have gone somewhere.
The walking big bang. Everyday.