On my good days, my collected days, my recharged days, I am rational and I approach things from a direction that just makes sense. I can block a head butt with a compassionate hug and work through a difficult choice mitigating an explosion with nothing more than step by step simplified problem solving, tight squeezes, a soft steady voice, and a willingness to separate the behavior from the communication. I don't flinch when I find money torn into little pieces in a carefully constructed pile behind the couch. On these days I breathe unicorns and rainbows. I only see the smiles, the hugs, the laughs, the growth.
On my bad days, I feel like the man from The Green Mile, the man who sucks up all of the bad energy. Except I never get to vomit locusts. Instead they eat silently inside of me, nibbling at the parts of my brain that control short term memory, self confidence, patience, motivation. Some of them eventually do break free, directed at my children at the oddest of times. My voice spews tiny buzzing wings that lash out and frantically slice in an effort to make someone else feel the fear, the confusion, the anger that I feel. I catch myself quickly and gulp down the immature retaliation, bloodying my already raw throat. These are my children. They don't know better. I do. I must lead by example. I must. On these days I wonder what is wrong with me? But it is also these days that allow me to "get" Bubba and Moose, which opens the possibility of more good days.
So the dance continues.