How We Think
Puck’s theme of cheeseburgers had continued heavy duty into Monday evening. It wasn’t dinner yet, and Puck had already worked his way through no less than five clean white undershirts from his clothes drawer: plastered in Sharpie burgers. The artist became disgruntled as, one by one, each shirt deviated from the original picture he had in his head:
“What’s wrong, bud? Not turning out the way you wanted it?”
“Mom … I uh just can’t get the spirit to write it right!”
Tuesday morning Puck stood in the living room window and sent off his dad to work with a crazy dance. I prepared to lift him back down off the ledge, because sometimes I forget that he’s not a baby:
“Mom,” he said seriously. “I’m going to have to report you to Dad. He said pacifically not to pick me up.”
Pacifically. And he was correct. No wonder my back aches sometimes.
Our afternoon grocery shopping had been delayed by one day from the lingering ice on Monday. So we arrived at a quiet store to stock up. On the way to collect guacamole supplies, Puck marched up to one of the Mardi Gras displays planted by the warming rotisserie chicken station. An accusatory finger pointed out a pair of Mardi Gras themed underpants:
“Look, Mom. They went too far.”
Our evening concluded with a good old-fashioned chapter with the Happy Hollisters somewhere in French Canada:
“You know many people speak only French, and not English, in Canada, the country above us,” I explained.
Puck grinned. “You mean on the roof? I thought there was something going on up there.”
Puck’s Blog: Age 6: Day #29
Puck imagines his baby brother in a slightly racist, albeit unintentionally done, manner:
“His skin is probably not going to be white because he’s not, you know, English. American, I mean. He’ll probably have brown hair too. I imagine his eyes will be blue. And he’s probably going to copy everything I do, like science. So he’ll probably be a fan of science. And he’ll try to do everything I do. Even the dangerous things, like swinging on a swing with no hands.”