Some days I fake rigor mortis hearing my son race down the hall at a clip…five, four, three, two, one…BANG!…Six years of age, new to earth, he does not yet know a good life can be had in sip doses, how to walk the earth instead of run it, how to quiet himself. A 10x box of sugar in a blender kind of kid, for who, standing still, is a challenge. A blur hollerer, his lemon Jell-o screams seep under the doors, find my sponge cake mind, cornered. The quiet slammed to pieces. Some days, I roll over. Some days, I take a stand and say, lets eat cake.