Loathing is perhaps too strong a word. Then again, in the moment, perhaps that’s exactly what it is. The dichotomy is not unique to our relationship, yet the reality of it takes my breath away. It has been raining for days, and chilly too, so not a lovely spring rain for frolicking. It is spring vacation from school for the boys. And Dex is out of town (returning tonight!) on business. Where it’s seventy degrees and sunny and the booze flows like water. [I’m speaking, of course, about Vegas, baby.]

I have been scrambling to keep everyone entertained, inside, for long days on end. We’ve done ok. I’ve managed to maintain a sense of order and we’ve had some fun. But is it any wonder, considering the circumstances, that the Double-L has risen up to stake claim on our household?

First, there is the love. Edward has been very helpful, cleaning with me, helping to dress his sisters, fixing lunches with elaborate and choreographed presentations. This morning, he helped load the dishwasher and he wiped the counters - all without me asking. The first night Dex was gone, he asked if he could stay up late with me and help me “clean up and do things like Daddy does.” [insert your own snicker here] [um, love ya, babe!] We’ve squeezed in time for dominoes and Rush Hour Jr. We got takeout pizza at his request. We’ve snuggled in bed in the evening, reading together. I am once again reminded of how much I truly enjoy my son’s company. Really and truly, he is a wonderful person.

Ah, but then… then there is the loathing. And the yelling. This morning, after the rush of chores was done and boredom had set in, Edward found his old IKEA bed tent in the closet and begged me to set it up. I finally caved and - after securing the younger kids in various rooms, with toys and Sesame Street - I started assemblying it. I’ll spare you the details but know that it did not go as planned. Add my splitting headache, lack of sleep, and overall stress level to Edward’s ability to question relentllessly every tiny thing I was doing or not doing or not doing fast enough and KABOOOM! My head explodes! No, actually, I explode and yell at him until he leaves the room and I sink down on a toddler-size chair and put my aching head in my hands. I’m too exhausted and defeated by my own inability to cope to even cry.

How can these extremes of emotion exist at the same time? I’m far from the first to ask, to wonder at the tangled edges of passion we hold for our children. There is one thing they hold in common, though, the love and loathing: an aching heart.