Chapter Twenty-Six
I still had bunny fur caked on my jams leggings from Thursday night. Those blankets see some action. The same bright colors patchwork quilt I slept with in high school that now has a hole gouged in the middle underside for some reason. And combine that with cat fuzz… something I promised I would never incorporate into the fabric of my sanity. Surprisingly, I really didn’t care. Instead, I tapped out a little light work over The Chieftains, plain hard boiled egg [blah], and oatmeal [yuck; making up for before], while The Bear caught up on an added hour of sleep.
“No one threw up over here!” Gloria greeted my 8:30 phone call.
Whew. Not sure if I would ever be able to get Puck to spend the night again if he had.
“Hi, Mom! I got a red yo-yo!”
“Cool, bud! And I hear you’re playing games with Nana?”
“Yup! UNO. Even though it’s for older kids!”
Add in some French toast, too. Puck was going to enjoy a friend-fest for a couple of hours after that. The kids from the South African family at the Silverspoon church had been invited over for the morning while their mom pieced together the bulletin for Sunday. It doesn’t matter where Puck is or how he feels or what time it is or anything else, he is always ready to meet a friend, old or new.
We finally meandered over there around noon after formatting The Bear’s Greek for the week, examining some new ideas for weekly schedules, a call to Mom about Linnea’s possible sleep solution [they were at the volleyball tournament of the morning], and a library run. The Bear set up his stacks of texts on the couch beside the wood lap board, laptop, and mug of tea on the couch. Gloria still had Puck and his buddies at the park down the road in the sun of a day that suggested freezing rain for Sunday morning. Theodore woke from a nap to light the fire with the click of a button. Snickers snoozed in the sun patch of rugs beside the deck door. Sometimes – well, all the time – weekends are the American Dream. Silverspoon or Snicketts, it doesn’t matter. Theodore and The Bear caught up on the week: work, school, the blue monster bed… I caught a few minutes of the Stan Musial funeral at the Basilica, streaming live, Bob Costas delivering a memorial…
“Did I return your Japanese hand saw?”
“Oh, yeah. I used that on your bed.”
Well, maybe not exactly traditional. We don’t incorporate cartoons and sugary cereals all that much though. [I guess “Shaun the Sheep” doesn’t count as a cartoon.] Puck and the three kids crashed back into the kitchen two hours after their initial meet-up with a pack of fruit gum, for piano and antics in the basement, while Gloria fixed lunch – fruit, peanut butter, veg, hummus, and more UNO. What more could a kid want. I put together spaghetti for The Bear and myself while the roaring laughter of four kids floated up from the basement…
“I lost a tooth!! I lost a tooth!!!”
Puck raced up the stairs, displaying the bloody hole in the lower gums. Indeed, indeed. Lower right central. It was a happy day for the young man. The Bear cleaned up the tooth, popped it in a little medicine bag. Just a tiny white scoop.
“It feels weird!” Puck declared.
He kept a wet tissue in his mouth for a few minutes and then realized that the hole was actually an interesting sensation, and sort of liked it.
“How did you lose it?” everyone asked.
“I bit down on a pillow and it came out!”
“Did I tell you that I once knocked Kitts’ tooth out in a pillow fight?” The Bear said.
I guess it was natural to follow up the afternoon with the old “Mission Impossible” series on Netflix, the fire in its silent crackle, everyone in their own activity while it played, Sebastian and Snickers curled in their own patches. Gloria scrubbing pans with paper towels and Bon Ami. Puck’s bare toes hanging off the couch edge, rosy cheeks from fresh air and fire. He still had a little mud on his face from the park, throwing pine cones on the frozen pond, exploring. Gloria chopped up a big salad before it was time to leave for the bluegrass concert in Godfrey that evening. They left at five. We stayed around for some “Shaun the Sheep”, Puck giggling, while The Bear wound down from the Greek and the website work with some iPad games. A cold white moon floated behind panels of gray patch-clouds as we left, starting the dishwasher, shutting off the lights, checking on the animals, locking the doors.
“Mom!” Puck belted down the hall that evening. “Crackers said her first word!”
“Really? What is it?”
“McMac!! She said McMac!!”
The Bear swiped the tooth before nine, replacing it with a faded quarter from 1981. I love that grin. The Bear may or may not have done a slipper run for ice cream. [And by slippers, I mean literally wearing slippers.] Although by the digital read of 34 degrees on the funeral home sign tonight, I wasn’t betting on it.