One Hundred Thirty
“Mom. I reckon to take out all the stuff and hide in there,” Puck pointed to his toy cabinet.
Why not. I wasn’t feeling so awesome. And when I’m not feeling so awesome, I don’t care too much about what’s destroyed or not. He changed his mind quickly, though. As soon as Mom called my phone. But a conversation on the phone always goes hand in hand with preventing potential disaster at the big, chubby hands of my son…
“Oh, Puck. No. No, you can’t take all of my envelopes.”
“But, Mom. I NEED them.”
When I got off the phone, Puck cleaned his desk, made his bed, and began his morning round of experiments…
“I need to make experiments with electricity,” he said.
It didn’t matter how weird or bad I felt, supervision would be required.
“Salt, please?”
Dump.
“And now for some syrup…”
Squirt.
“I don’t think we need this anyway,” Puck held up the air freshener.
Spray, spray.
And, of course, more food coloring.
“So what is this experiment supposed to accomplish, Puck?”
“I don’t know. It might make somethin’.”
It made “somethin’” alright.
“Mom. Please tape a sign on the pot of chemicals – ‘Poisonous Experiment. Do not drink!’”
Mom and Carrie dropped off a bag of items to help my upset stomach. A wedding five hours away in Nashville and potential illness do not pair well.
“Oh, Puck? What’s this?” Carrie asked, pulling a handful of pastel M&M’s from behind his ear. “How do you keep hiding things like that?”
Puck grinned.
As they drove off to find Linnea a last-minute dress for the spring formal next weekend, Puck ran out of the house several times in his lab coat [white apron], transporting spoonfuls of his potion…
“I put SUGAR IN IT!”
Or, baking soda. Same thing.
The mail brought two pairs of Duluth pants for The Bear in dark brown – I try – and Puck’s black clip-on bunk lamp which was a grand success. Of course, Puck can’t let a box go idly by. The smaller one he immediately stuffed onto his head for a white hat. A pretty perfect fit. The larger Target box was a little more intricate…
“Here, Mom, could you cut holes in the bottom of it for my legs?”
Because I wasn’t feeling 100%, I guess, I had failed to notice him grab the chopping knife from the counter. Gratefully, no damage had been accomplished. Two holes in the box, laced up over his shoulders like suspenders from a barrel with scrap ribbons from my sewing bag, or whatever they made fun of in 1930’s cartoons and Charlie Chaplin. My son was, once again, a walking box.
It was around five o’clock that I realized I was actually probably sick. A temperature reading of 99.4 and body aches wasn’t exactly encouraging. I mean, I have a knack for this incredible timing twice in a row, now. The day before Christmas Eve and the day before the day before Curly’s wedding. For starters, though, movie night was canceled.
Puck wasn’t too bothered. He sat at the table for his own movie-dinner-night: peanut butter sandwich and “Saludos Amigos”, another old Disney, with a box still around his middle and another on his head…
“Puck, finish your water, bud.”
“I’m stuffed to my rear toe, Mom. I’m stuffed to my TOES!”
I managed to pull through seven o’clock without collapsing, while The Bear joined an HR rep from work for dinner downtown. Truth – I wasn’t feeling terrible or anything – not like Christmas had been. I could only hope our nine AM Saturday morning departure was still intact. What does Dad always quote…
“The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” – Proverbs 16:9, ESV