Around 7am (or sometimes 6am, yawn), Benaiah wakes up to eat. I feed him, change him, then put him in the highchair. That is his sideline seat to watch the action. The next 45 minutes is a constant laughing, scurrying, cat-petting, hair-brushing, bed-making, toothpaste-squeezing, whizzing blond-haired frenzy. Lunches? Backpacks? Piano bags? Tae Kwon Do uniforms? Shoes? Coats? Hats? Mittens? Smiles? Kisses? They are out the door, then one last wave from the balcony. That's the storm.
Then I boil an egg, slice some feta cheese, toss a few black olives on my plate, prepare a pot of tea, and sit down to a silence that stands out in sharp contrast to the previous hour. Benaiah sits with me as I have breakfast and read my Bible. Then I pray for those blond-haired frenzies. That's the calm.
It's really too much for him. The storm he takes in each morning, then the quiet calm. It has this effect on him.