He's wringing his hands over a little egg case of praying mantis eggs sent over from Meryl.
At first, it's the most exciting thing ever! 50 to 400 eggs! Praying mantis bugs everywhere. Can you even imagine?
We sit on the couch and marvel. This is fantastic. And then. The wheels start to turn. And turn. And turn and turn and turn.
What if I'm not here when they hatch?
What if no one is here when they hatch?
What if no one sees them when they're born?
Can we go to the doctor and get an x-ray everyday so we'll know when they're coming?
Can we put them somewhere really warm will they hatch faster? On time? Right now? Like popcorn?
I HAVE TO BE THERE WHEN THEY'RE BORN.
I WANT MY WHOLE FAMILY TO BE THERE.
When Carter is in grief, it's the most heart-wrenching thing in the world. None of us can take it. It's the saddest, sweetest grief you've ever seen. You don't know whether to laugh or cry or, in our case, say all the wrong things to make it better. And not just us, but four next door neighbors, two from each side. Not a single one of us had something good to offer that could help Carter stop crying as his emotions traveled through all of life's most primal moments--birth, home (can we make 400 individual shelters for each of them), loss (what if they fly away? what if they're not with me anymore and I needed them?), death (what if they die???).
An hour and a half into the meltdown, I had only two thoughts in my head:
1. This is clearly not about the eggs.
2. There is a whole lot of love for one little boy in this room.
Tell me, please oh please, how do you deal with meltdowns--the kind that aren't about bad behavior or not enough to eat or not enough sleep--but those tears that are telling you that something is truly not all right. I'd love to know.