Jack broke the window in his bedroom this weekend.
Which begs the question (in my mind, anyway), does this form of confessional prose get old to whoever is reading my stuff? It’s rather formulaic, I KNOW.
Something crazy happens and I write about it. I deconstruct it and generally come to some sense of…I don’t know. Completion, about the whole thing? Acceptance. Understanding. Learning. Or something.
Perhaps the manner in which my life unfolds on this blog is predictable in this sense, or at the very least, repetitive.
I fully understand the nature of this cycle, because my darlings, I live it. On repeat. ForEVAH.
But when Jack broke the window (incidentally, using an object, not a body part; he was not injured), I wondered, “If I write about this event, does it become like every other destructive/difficult event in all the other posts? Am I just cranking out more of the ‘crazy household=my regular life, yo‘ type of writing that has been my thing these many years?”
*Please note, I am not fishing for validation with this rhetorical question. I’m pondering it myself and trying to work my way through it. The end.*
Jeff taped cardboard over the broken pane until we can get it replaced. While I was bathing filthy Truman, post-cabin, we heard something fall down the laundry chute and shatter. Jack had worked the coverings off the broken window, removed some shards, and tossed them down, SMASH!
I put Henry in charge of guarding Jack, who had already stepped on glass and was tracking blood all over my bedroom furniture and the hallway, while Jeff worked on securing the window, and I cleaned the glass from the bottom on the laundry chute.
First I swept up all the broken glass. Then I wiped up streaks of blood from various spots upstairs. I prevented Jack from entering his room while Jeff dealt with the window. I washed Truman’s hair, listened to him scream about being cold and the pajamas being wrong and the fact that HE WAS NOT TIRED. Henry read the boys a Halloween book while I cleaned up more blood smears from my down comforter and the chair-and-a-half. We said prayers and three of the four people went to their beds.
Do I care if they are not sleeping at this moment?
No. No, I do not.
This weekend was one of predictable hardship: we went to the cabin; it was horribly difficult coping with Jack there. Jeff and I didn’t get to watch or listen to as much of LDS General Conference as we would’ve liked because of the wrangling of the children. And the destruction.
I feel like there should be some glorious epiphany, following the breaking of a window AND ye old General Conference weekend. Like, I should have woven together some terrific thoughts about the Jack trauma and the wisdom I gleaned during the conference talks (because when I could listen, I did glean. Oh yes, the people. I gleaned).
But it’s early yet, and I am still shell-shocked from the unending pacing, hitting, head-bashing, head-butting, glass-shattering, poo-cleaning, Jack redirecting glory of the past two days.
And I have woven nothing at this point. Good day, sir.