My children are getting the better of me. They are my everything and then some. Nothing makes me happier than their happiness. Nothing fills me with more love than their love. And yet, they drive me crazy.
They are pushing it.
I hide in my office, in my work, and behind fingers of bourbon. I hide from their screams and their need and the non-stop trips from bed for things that never mattered during their waking hours.
I hide from the demons that stir when their voices become fingernails across the blackboard of my soul.
My anger is a reflection. I am angrier at myself for being angry than I am with them. It is complicated in its simplicity.
Time is too valuable to waste on moments such as this. Theirs is but a moment against minutes. Theirs is a haiku pulled from the heart of a sonnet.
Mine is gruff and coarse and grown over with callous.
Each scream left unheeded rolls into the next and they become one, sharpened upon the stone of my heart and tempered within the sea of their tears.
It is a battle that they wage and they are as unrelenting as I am unarmed.
Tomorrow the sun will rise and their smiles will pale the sunshine. I am ready for this, in fact I crave it. But I need this time. I need this night of solitude and a constant stream of thought uninterrupted. I need to hide, and just for a night I need to not be found.
Read more from Whit Honea at his site Honea Express and the popular group blog DadCentric. You can follow Whit on the Twitter or Pinterest (his opinions are his own and do not reflect those of Babble or most rational people).