Chapter One Hundred Eight
My baby boy was six years old. Growing like a weed, grinning mischief, my best bud.
The unusual combination of simultaneous birdsong and thunder woke this big Puckster at a healthy 6:20 on his most exciting day of the year. He came in for another snuggle, despite being “too old” for that process and sandwiched himself under the warm comforters. Because the temperatures had dropped. Again. I’m not complaining.
So for this special birthday – because they all really are – Puck got a play-free day, which pretty much meant we were going to do whatever we wanted, whether that meant building a volcano in the kitchen or a raft to ford the Mississippi. Neither of those things happened, of course. Besides, we were entering steady downpour, which we were both fine with, obviously. And The Bear had other plans anyway. A dozen fresh-baked family-owned bakery donuts. Puck downed almost an entire chocolate-covered-colored-sprinkle-topped specimen in under thirty seconds. But not before The Bear had prayed a breakfast prayer…
“…and thank you for six years of awesome Puckness.”
We opened two birthday cards, including a Target gift card from Martha and happy frogs from Grandma Combs. Mom had called to wish Puck a happy birthday, Dad had called, Gloria sent a birthday sketch in the email… Puck was well-wished and well-doted.
As the rain dripped on past newly unfolding greenery we continued Puck’s birthday bucket list. I guess licking the salt off fat pretzel sticks was one of those items. So was jumping on his bed, half-naked. Around this time I also received a news article from Carrie – apparently men in Saudi Arabia were being deported for being “too handsome”. We like our laughs.
I allowed the Puckster a single ice cream sandwich for his birthday lunch dessert. I must be some kind of terrible mom. But he was happy with it, I was happy with it, so I called it good.
The rain still dribbled in the afternoon, past pink and white tulip trees, more bird song, the shoosh of highway rubber on pavement.
When Gloria emailed me later that day requesting Puck’s Saturday birthday dinner menu order, Puck had grand plans…
“Bacon… ice cream bars… and cake. Or ice cream cones. Ice cream cones, Mom. And paper.”
I looked over at him. Big grin.
“I mean, meat, Mom. Meat, meat, MEAT!”
The afternoon was so completely leisurely, that I even had time between rounds of Wahoo and Garfield, to try my hand on Free Rice.
I think I let this birthday thing get a little too out of hand when I confronted the subject of personal hygiene with Puck after Quiet Hour…
“Ok, bud. We’re going to read some more Garfield, and then into the shower.”
“Mm-mm. It’s my birthday. No shower. My choice.”
Think again. Pal. He got in that shower. While he scrubbed down, he was reminded of his love of my olive oil soap bar…
“Mom? Could I have my own collection of olive oil so I can smell it whenever I want?”
Puck’s birthday dinner was crafted – bacon sandwiches, pomegranate juice, and watermelon for dessert. He was one happy kid.
And… because Puck had transversed another two years of passage without a bedtime extension, I granted him an extra half hour which translated into lights-out at 7:30. He ended his birthday evening by digging treasures out of the couch cushions. Marbles, coins, washers, puzzle pieces, keys, large ball bearings…
“Ball bear-iens!” he declared victoriously, bare feet in his bathrobe.
These are good, and grateful, days.
