A Few Scrapes
“Everything is awe-some … everything is cool when you’re part of a team…”
“Mom.” Puck stared at me like I was crazy. “That song is just so old … school.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s an ‘enspression’,” he said seriously.
Puck had just finished homework, waiting on dinner. We drove home under, for lack of better words, yogurt-mixed-with-blueberries-and-honey skies and absolutely frigid temperatures, in our new silver Fit: “Love Tap”. So named after Joe slammed it into the side of the mountain. German insisted that it wasn’t a crash, merely a “love tap”. So the name had stuck.
Love Tap wasn’t the only name on the recovery list. Just yesterday Rose had about sliced her finger off in the garage door – still waiting on the explanation to that one. Yet one more visit to Urgent Care for a Snicketts girl in this early new year. That makes it three times in six days. Surprisingly, no stitches required for Rose. Something more along the lines of liquid band-aid from what I’m told.
The only other scrapes to add to this week’s list were Puck’s school sports injuries.
“I slid on the floor when we played soccer,” he explained, pulling up his pant-leg when he flew out of the gym, back-pack attached.
Two bloody knees in one week. Not bad.
So anyway – dinner. And of course, because dinner can never be just dinner – Puck’s mind is always rolling – he turned to me and asked, “Do you have anything I can catapult?”
Calvin.
Calvin and Hobbes.
While he prepared for bed, he walked through the house, one hand clamped over one eye, and a prism slapped over the other: confusing sense of perspective. He spent several minutes crashing into the furniture and Christmas tree before I called him over to the couch for readings.
Oxbear was extra nice and brought back a pack of Reeses peanut butter cups for me. I sat on the couch with a handful, and a book, to enjoy the goodness. A no longer purring cat sat two cushions removed, staring. Then she sniffed at me, disdainfully, I reckon. I stared back, peanut butter cup poised and ready for chomping.
“Don’t judge me, punk.”