Ch. 155; Vol. 10
“I hope you didn’t act this way for Sun and Grandma while we were gone,” I told Puck.
He was being ornery about something as he buckled the seatbelt around his assertive person.
“I wasn’t,” he told me quickly. “I was as good as a angel.”
Hmmm…
“I let him watch Prince of Egypt while he was going down to bed last night,” Carrie told me. “I figured he’d just fall asleep watching it. But then I went back to check on him at nine o’clock and his eyes were still open big watching it.”
Maybe the chances of him falling asleep at Shakespeare this weekend weren’t as solid as I had anticipated…
So Puck and I found ourselves playing an extensive Puck-makes-all-the-rules-up game of mah-jongg at Rose’s apartment before we got to our academic readings of the morning. Puck had been fascinated with his clay “planet” for two days. Although he insisted that…
“It’s not a planet, Mom. It’s just a ball. Why do you keep calling it a planet?”
“I don’t know. It sort of looks like a planet Doctor Who would visit.”
I recall my six year-old self crafting chunky smooth discs of multi-colored swirled Playdough with Dad one evening, fascinated with the idea of them being flat planets. Then teaching the grandmas how to make them while vacationing in Virginia another evening while Mom and Dad were on a date. It carries over.
We managed to stay at Rose’s the entire morning. So many obligations. UNO, mah-jongg, readings, Andy Griffith, peanut butter sandwiches. It’s a satisfying revolving door. No two days alike. But there are certainly staples. So by the time we were wrapping up lunch, the sky had shaded over in a pale silver.
I guess reading C.S. Lewis will bring it out, these questions…
“Mom? What made Satan bad?”
“Greed. He wanted to be like God. Better than God. It was a seed of greed.”
“What is a seed of greed?”
“It starts with a thought.”
“But how did that seed get there in the first place?”
“That. Is a mystery…”
I wasn’t prepared for a full theological disembowelment that afternoon. On the other hand, there are some topics of conversation that I can handle even if I’m not paying attention…
“Look how hairy my legs are, Mom! The boy at the park had legs that were much hairier than mine, though.”
“Is that so? You didn’t tell him that, did you?”
“Yup, I did. But he didn’t care. He was five, so he didn’t understand.”
On the other hand…
“Mom, how does your mouth make words?”
“Well, it starts here and here, in your heart, and here in your head, and the thought comes out as words.”
“But. How do you make words?”
“Your teeth and tongue make the right formations.”
“But, how do you make words…”
Despite my incapabilities, Puck was satisfied with arranging Rose’s kitchen table as an arena for water bottle cap flicking. We had a few tournaments between stacks of books, candle jars [Egyptian sandalwood], etc., until it was time for dinner.
Our drive out to pick up The Bear was a little more tedious than usual, including more-than-expected Zoo traffic. He was laying it on, thick…
“Mom? How many things are invisible?”
I let Puck ride his bike for awhile when we got back, The Bear chopping up overgrown yard still wearing his work shirt. [I can’t convince him to change his mind about some things.] Puck skirted his Strider to the front door and out…
“Mom. I know I’m your son and you’re made to watch over me, so can you stay outside to make sure I’m not burgal-ed or somethin’?”
But then he started hanging around a posse of slightly older neighborhood kids across the street…
“You don’t have to watch me now, Mom. I’m sure the other kids would say something if I was kidnapped. I’m making friends already.”
He came back even later brandishing a makeshift rubberband gun in his hand…
“You never know what you find on the streets these days,” he told me smugly, running off to shoot The Bear with the rubberband.