Ch. 162; Vol. 10

Every day it’s something different.

Today I woke up late, finally catching up from the weekend. And Puck had slapped his vitamin bottle on the bedclothes, followed by a few serious looks of intensity…

“Mom. I brought these weights up from downstairs.”

– He lifted a bar with 2.5 weights on each end, also onto the bed. –

“Do you want to be strong like the utter [other] women?”

I stared back at him, trying to make sure I was awake…

“Sure…”

“Ok. After brefftest [breakfast], we are going to start our work-outing. The whole family will do a work-outing together.”

So that’s what we did, between oatmeal, Phonics, and Izze pink grapefruit juice. And he lost his second tooth at breakfast. A year later. Well. After the wiggly-ness had first started it took about that long to fall out.

Puck presented me with an antique book from the square coffee table that morning. A blue one that I never read because it was written in Hebrew…

“Mom,” he told me carefully, with that professor-tone, “This book I am saving for my baby brother. Because I will teach him how to learn French.”

A solitary bundle of Caribbean-pink roses had popped out on the porch. I’m usually only guaranteed about three or four per summer. In two clusters. All that red clay in the soil, I guess. Too much shade. Dancing the pillar in the late spring breeze, which was already too warm for my tastes.

Puck retreated to his room with cat and weights for the Quiet Hour, while I sorted out the rest of the week. Things came fast and crazy sometimes. Maybe especially in June. But he can’t resist coming out, of course, from time to time…

“Here, Mom,” he handed an empty, grapefruit-sticky bottle to me. “Please wash that for my collection.”

Especially the times when he pronounces each syllable like it’s a colored tab in an archive at the Smithsonian, everything precise and detailed, ordered and rhythmic. Those are the times you know he is absolutely serious, and enjoys very much, the process he is stitching together in his head.

It was also around this time that I had to remind Puck that he had put Crackers in the bathtub. A dry bathtub, at least. So while he knew he wasn’t supposed to emerge from his room again – because he just can’t seem to help himself and does it half a dozen times every Quiet Hour – I saw him walk past with a handful of gray fur…

“I’m just getting Crackers out of the bathroom,” he told me with full confidence. “You don’t have to jump to conclusions.”

Ten minutes later, it was the piggy bank. The heavy red plastic piggy bank stuffed with coins…

“Mom. Could you use your magic to break open this?”

“I can’t, pal.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not magic.”

“Can’t you use your magic though?”

Something wasn’t translated.

“I don’t have any magic, bud.”

His eyes bugged…

“You DON’T?!”

“Nope.”

“No MAGIC?!”

I think I just about blew his mind.

Puck carefully examined the tree house book The Bear picked up for him at the library.

“And I want a tunnel that goes through the tree and into the ground in case of tornados,” he explained to me with conviction.

Then he noticed that the scab on his ankle was mysteriously missing…

“What?! If I find that, I do NOT want to keep it.”

Finally. Something he doesn’t want to collect.

[A bunk bed for Donkey and Buck.]