How Do You Think?

“Bandaid! I need a bandaid!”

I un-pillowed my head once again to the most recent outcry.

“What did you do this time, Puck?”

“Blood!”

In desperation, the chap turned to the nearest form of salve available…

“Don’t wipe it on the!… wall… Puck.”

The pin-prick of blood from a cracked ornament – drat that cat – was fixed and forgotten as I de-muggy-ed my brain from another night.

Puck is great at creating distractions. He’s genius sometimes, actually. It’s so subtle, I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. Especially during his morning reading lessons. Fortunately for me, I have profound experience in the department of diverting distractions from so many years of tutoring Joe and Rose around paper confetti fiestas. But occasionally even I get a little off my guard…

“Is that northwest, Mom?”

“Well, yeah, it is actually. How did you know that?…”

Other times, it’s just too obvious…

“Hang on, Mom. I’ve got a glittery thing on my toe.”

Or other times, just ridiculous…

“Puck, I’m not going to tell you what the word says. You have to figure it out yourself.”

“You shouldn’t be afraid to do the right thing, Mom. Just tell me.”

I scooted the young man out the door for fresh cold air before lunch. But Puck was worried about the location of his musical bugle, over which he doth much protest…

“I’m not going outside until I find my toot-toot!”

Instead, he grabbed my old junior high hand-Bible, ratty and taped…

“Are you going to read the Bible outside?” I asked, taking his winter coat out of the closet.

“Mom,” he looked steadily at the wall like his mother was a moron. “It’s a weapon.”

Oh boy…