Ch. 248; Vol. 10

“Hurry, Mom. Check this plant!” Puck pointed to a loose tropical red leaf on the linoleum. “Crackers could be feasting on this poisonous plant. I hope Crackers didn’t see that plant fall down. It could be dangerous for her!”

Puck the Police.

“Caesar!”

I’m pretty sure he actually meant to say, “Seize her!” but either way, it’s a Puck thing these days.

He had cause to make such a remark later in the morning when Crackers somehow scratched the inside of his nostril. The tissues ran red. And Crackers’ condo may or may not have gone tumbling down the stairs as punishment. I reminded Puck about Mr. Rogers and punching pillows.

Before lunch, we discussed Socrates. “Interesting that he didn’t believe in the Greek gods, don’t you think?”

Puck pressed two pointed fingers in the air like he was absently directing an orchestra [he does this sometimes when he explains an idea]. “You know his mudder [mother]? Maybe his mudder didn’t believe in the Greek gods, so she taught her children not to believe in them. So. Maybe that’s it.”

With all later forgotten and forgiven, Puck carefully analyzed a conglomeration of Legos in his hands a few minutes later. “Crackers? Did you attach these legs to this false god?” I can’t really remember how that started, but some of the Legos with faces have assumed that name. “Crackers, if you did this, I will have to take away your tuna can. Because that is not honoring to God.”

I was trying to get us out on time. Lunch was served an hour early. A knife stirred into the peanut butter, burbly like Yellowstone.

We left at 12:17, to allow two extra minutes [plus three more even though Google Maps often overestimated; a good chance], to find the home address emailed me on Monday. We arrived two minutes early.

An old dog met us at the door, well-loved chew toy in mouth. An old cat of chocolate-peanut-butter coat huddled on the back of the couch in a den built up with books. Forty-five minutes of Legos for Puck with the eleven year-old son while my book was autopsied over a glass of ice water. In a good way. His “mudder” sent me home with only three papers of advice and corrections, while Puck asked to stay longer in the snug house built in the 1950’s.

Before inflicting heatstroke on my son after only thirty minutes at the park, we packed up putter and golfball for Simply Apple apple juice back home to separate Lego men from Lego blocks.

“OW!”

“What?”

“Glass in my foot!”

Tweezers – pinch – out.

“I need a band-aid! It hurts!”

His six year old-ness still had not fully processed the reality that band-aids don’t take away the pain.

POUND! POUND! POUND! POUND! POUND!

“Puck. What are you doing?”

“I’m getting the band-aid to stick on better!”

“That doesn’t work.”

But he was convinced. Convinced enough to dance a jig back and forth across the living room floor, chomping carrots – bad idea – before donning Star Wars Angry Birds jams.

[Work where you can.]