morning head: Symbiosis
A cruel symbiosis exists between the stay at home parent and his ward. In some sort of punitive circadian rhythm the days align themselves like waves, the troughs of parental energy in sync with the lows of the child’s ability to cope with a fucking thing.
Developmental leaps, those mutant swells crashing uneven and askew on the misshapen beach of the parent’s tolerance, as the child tries wrap its expanding understanding around moving one finger at a time or what the fuck it is supposed to do with these knee-things, all seem to peak at times when the rest of the universe is trying to drag the hapless carer beneath the surface.
And then it passes, and the little imp becomes cherub once more, up on his feet now, and it’s all smiles as the parent watches him totter along the edge of the coffee table, gripping tight the home-made, pool-noodle edge-buffers, while around them bobs the flotsam of things the parent wanted to get done over the last week, and the strewn wreckage of the toy basket, thrown into yesterday’s wild surf in a desperate attempt to save the child from drowning in his own frustration is ignored, irrelevant in the face of all the things now within reach on higher surfaces.