Blowin' in the Wind

Mountainous Spain with Mom and the girls. Night. Traveling uphill, too steep for the car. That is what sent me through dream world on a warm Monday night in Tuesday, leading to a mild head cold in the morning.

Puck was already folding white printer paper into an armada of lightsabers at the breakfast table. Yellow and blue had been added. But orange – though Puck’s favorite – was not an option on the table, apparently:

“Tiaan says that orange isn’t as powerful,” Puck explained to El Oso.

When I had to leave the room momentarily during math, I returned to find the good white eraser with Lego jewel balanced on top placed on the linoleum by the window as a “sun dial.”

We were off to a good Tuesday.

Puck continued to sniff and sneeze from the overdose of allergens (or his own head cold) in this particularly bad spring:

“At least I’m not allergic to Crackers,” he said brightly. “See? Oh … God probably made me allergic to cats now because I said ‘see.’ And that’s a rude thing to say.”

Okay, Martin Luther.

It was really getting warm now. Mid 80’s. If it’s not snowing in April, it’s summer in May.

Prior to lunch, Puck expressed a thought to me that had apparently been confounding him lately:

“I don’t get it. Sometimes I’m hungry, but I can’t eat anymore. Sometimes I’m not hungry, and I still eat. Like, if I’m at a restaurant and I have one grilled cheese and then my body wants another grilled cheese. Why does my body do that to me? Isn’t that crazy? To want two grilled cheeses?”

Crazy.

I collected Puck from Quiet Hour. He had tied shoelaces and other strings to his top bunk and doorknob, creating an effective pulley system to open the door without particular effort. If he isn’t his dad’s son…

I sent him out into lazy green sunshine and flying pollen around three-thirty. He stood in the front yard waiting for Eddie’s bus, mesmerized with the whirling “helicopters” from nearby trees.

When I called Puck back home from Anna’s and Eddie’s at 6:45, he experienced his first shower with the new fixture. His praise was unbounded, and followed up with an exuberant self-directed infomercial that I could hear clear down the hall:

“Be sure to buy one. The number is: 511-311 … 22.”