The meaning of deja vu is somewhat fuzzy: having the sense that what is  happening is a repeat of an occurrence from years past. Obviously much of what fills our days is not novel. We sit in the same bucket seat and drive the same car on the same route. Our children are consistent, although they change at an alarming rate. Christmas and birthdays come around predictably, with rehearsed traditions. The songs we sing have well worn words, dear in being imprinted on the heart. 

But deja vu is different. You pause in the peripheral knowledge that these phrases, these circumstances have been here before. 

The other day Benjamin started to come unglued. This is not unprecedented, and yet I was mindful of the juncture of what is repetitive with the unexpected. There are memories, mostly jammed into the recesses of my mind, of when his older siblings tested my tensile strength. Most of the time I failed, in that I made it about me. Could I control this child? Would my parental finesse help us navigate this potential tantrum quickly?  Would we dodge the bullet of public embarrassment by slipping out of the church service in time? 

But in this moment, it was about Ben. Why was he upset? How could I support him? Then he said four words I don't recall him ever saying in his twenty years. 

"I'm going to cry."

In truth he did not cry, at least if I can measure by the absence of tears. But he came close to the feeling, and more significant still, he named it. 

The well worn groove that catches the wheels of his behavior is anger. He and fury are long time cohorts. But sadness has been lost behind the rage. 

I am teary even now to remember it. Yes, the circumstances have repeated themselves, not to punish me, but to give me one more chance to be free.