Don't Bring Out That Bugle
Dream Account
The Dutch Serengeti… someplace in eastern Europe, but the map was turned 180 degrees to the… right…
Carrie was insanely furious with me because I was supposed to be a bridesmaid in a wedding, where she was also bridesmaid, and in the process of walking across a rain-soaked yard in a sort of shimmery [very ugly] lavender dress and heels, I slipped and fell into a soupy mud puddle.
The Day, as it Happens
When The Bear stays home later on a Thursday morning, something like Bored Shorts TV: Kids Explain All Youtube clips comes out, a pajama-ed Puck sitting on his lap. I butchered the last fried egg for myself, because sometimes I don’t feel like being delicate, between texting Francis about his current under cover mission. Sometimes it’s sort of like kids playing “spy” all over again. I guess we never really grow up.
Fun and games ended with dishes and dusting, with Puck in full cooperation as chief volunteer.
This is nice.
Wonder how long that’s going to last…
We tried to set up the Cardinals electric train in the library, but it didn’t take. I think the battery needed replacing, so we left it in there to play with the Magic Bullet. Black bean puree. That was for me.
“Want some apple juice, Puck?”
“Yes!”
In went three wedges of Honeycrisp and a splash of cold water. Voila. Puck was happy with this thick concoction not entirely acceptable for a straw. Peels and all. No complaint.
Puck’s room smelled awful. Just terrible. What began as the subtle aroma of corn chips, now reeked of dead mouse.
Problem.
We had no mice.
And, as usual, no one seemed to notice it but me. Over the last several days I had tried to understand the mystery of this painful aroma to no avail. By Thursday afternoon, I pulled on my wellies, grabbed Puck’s [once mine] ancient Playskool flashlight, and went on the hunt in the basement. First, I opened Puck’s bedroom window as far as it would go.
“Stay here,” I told Puck. “Keep watch at the window.”
“I will, Mom,” he replied importantly. “I’ll stand guard.”
I stomped downstairs. As I flashed the pale beam into the recesses of the floorboards, smelling nothing, of course, I heard something rapid tearing in the leaves past the basement windows.
“I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!”
I walked back up the stairs to retrieve my son.
I shortly later rescued the surrounding ten square mile radius from my son’s blistering bugle in the tree branches, by inducing an afternoon walk. As we rounded the third bend, Puck thought he had enough…
“My legs are tired, Mom. Let’s just do a half walk today.”
“Oh, not a tough guy, eh?”
Puck was immediately indignant…
“I am a tough guy! Watch!”
– He put one foot into the nearest yard and dropped the bugle on it. –
“See? Didn’t hurt.”
“Yeah. You’re pretty tough, I guess…”
But this kid wasn’t letting it go.
“I’m tough, Mom! Watch me punch this sign!”