intense

Most days I am stunned by his brilliance.
In the bright sunlight, his hair almost the color of an orange popsicle, a constellation of freckles across his nose, he strikes me as having a magical mix of imagination and exuberance.  And also the energy of an entire rugby team.

Earlier today we took the boys to the theater.  For a few minutes he sat and ate popcorn, not the way his brother does it, in big handfuls, but by ferrying each piece to his mouth one by one, the precision of a little machine.  When eating grew old he stood on his chair and ran up and down rows and asked to play games on our phones and then cried when we suggested he sit and watch the movie.

And then we almost left him in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store this evening.  He was rolling on the floor clutching a half-eaten kids club cookie, screaming about not getting to go in the big cold beer freezer room.  He continued to wail as we checked out, begging for a match box car hanging, until he grabbed it, right at kid eye-level on the end cap.  It did not come home with us, but he did.

These two year old tantrums occur with frightening intensity.  Like ON FIRE intensity.  Like if he were leaner his body might resemble a lit match, his head a flame.  
But he goes to bed at night and wakes bright and shiny and brilliant again.  Not a match, but a little like the sun's understudy.