scrumbled

That's a Jacksonism. It means, well it means just like how it sounds. Kind of foggy-headed or a little jumbled, mixed-up, kind of messy. That's how we are lately, my son and I. Kind of scrumbled.

He's right in the middle of the next step toward independence. I know that. He either wants to argue with me over every little thing, or he wants to be held and loved on like a baby. Moving away, moving back.

Rationally, I know this. I know what's going on. But my heart is heavy and my brain is tired. Everything is a battle. Actually, battle is too harsh. Everything is a negotiation, with tensions rising between the participants.

He has always been a reasonable child. From very early on, I have been able to reason with him, explain to him why something has to be the way it is. Well, now the tables are turning. He's realizing that "the way it is" isn't necessarily so. There is room for negotiation, even if I don't agree.

So, for now, we argue, we hug, we cry, we laugh, we look at each other with identical expressions of steely determination, blue eyes vs. brown. We move away from each other. We move back.

We're just a little scrumbled right now. My son and I.