Children aren’t always so simple. They communicate through so many different channels. One such observation is that the closer children get to that threshold of complete exhaustion, the more rowdy and rambunctious they become.
There’s been a similar paradigm in my life recently. I have documented some of the more misguided physical adventures Duckie and I have had, and their frequency and intensity have increased substantially within the last few weeks. We’ve historically harassed each other before, but the other night, we both ended up sprawled all over the floor in the artificial darkness of the office. Having upped the stakes to the point where the usual whooping noises, caricatures, and threats of mutually assured destruction no longer sufficed, Duckie felt compelled to grab my nipple and try to twist it off. It was then I realized I was ill-prepared for this unknown terrain. I didn’t comprehend the escalating physical violence from what had started off as vitriolic verbal heckling.
Last night I had a revelation. Duckie and I were going our separate ways. As much as we hoped to work in business together, there were external forces that sunk this desire. We sensed this chasm growing over the last two months, and were flailing our limbs about trying to avoid the inevitable.