Ch. 253; Vol. 10

Puck’s prayer at breakfast was concise, mentioning gratitude for another day, for the food… “And thank you for the new game that Dad posted up. Amen.”

The iPad is not forgotten, Monday through Friday.

There were other things Puck hadn’t forgot. From Monday night, for example, when I cut a nest of dark hair off Bær’s head. Puck, who had been reading Garfield in the bathroom – “MOM! COME HERE! I WANT TO READ YOU SOMETHING!” [and he did; he read a whole page of Garfield perfectly to me while sitting on the loo; no embarrassment whatsoever] – found the hair just waiting, like pirates jewels waiting to be snatched, on the linoleum.

“Mom?” I could see the scissors already in hand. “Could you cut my hair, too? I want to add it to my collection.”

I stared at the sandwich bag stuffed with dead dark fluff. It’s my own fault.

“No, Puck. I don’t need to cut your hair yet.”

The scissors fidgeted in his hands for a few more seconds, waiting.

“Agh! I can’t stand it anymore!”

The scissors flashed to his scalp.

“No, Puck. You’re not going to cut your hair.”

“How do you know? I’m an expert.”

His attention switched to the collection already housed in the Ziploc. “Could we sell a little bag of Dad’s hair?”

“Why would…” Bafflement. “…why would we want to sell Dad’s hair?”

He laughed at himself. “Oh, I just got my words confused. Mind if we sew a little bag out of Dad’s hair, I meant.”

“I’m not that skilled, bud.”

“Well, would you please knit it? Please? PLEEEEEASE?”

“Hon, I can’t knit Dad’s hair.”

“Look it up! You never know!”

When Puck finally understood that manipulating his dad’s hair cuttings into a purse was an unrealistic – and also possibly disgusting – expectation, he disbanded this Tahitian Cannibal Idea for Legos, and a log of red curling ribbon he snatched from my card box.

“Could you tie this into a necklace for me, Mom?”

“Why?”

“I want to show how much I love Legos.”

“How?” [I was a little distracted.]

“By cutting this string and putting a Lego on it and making a Lego necklace, of course!”

Of course.

We had another paint peeler. 99 degrees for a predicted high. Indian Summer was possible, yet.

Crackers stared curiously at the black cat window cling on the window – a Dierberg’s find from Mom. We couldn’t tell if she had found a friend or a toy.