One Hundred Twenty-Eight
Puck had been fascinated with a particular matchbox car inherited from his uncles the last few days. This one was splashed obnoxiously with the stars and stripes. He had been pondering. I could see it.
“Mom, I know this is kind of silly, but should we put this in the special drawer [china cabinet with keepsakes and books] with my mittens [from Uruguay]? Because it ree-presents the United States?”
I think I’ve mentioned before – I’m no huge fan of the American flag. Maybe it was hip and “new-fangled” back in the day, but I just don’t like it. Why couldn’t we have an all-green flag like Libya used to? Anyway, I declined the request as kindly as possible. Although Puck did call me out on keeping a stuffed teddy bear of the same colors in the opposite book case for memory’s sake. He’ll call you out, he will.
He got busy arranging a random conglomerate of flower pots, plastic measuring cups, and matchbox cars on the kitchen table.
“Puck, you can’t bring the flower pots to Grandma’s today.”
“But, Mom, my egg pot hasn’t seen the world yet. And I just made it.”
“Why do you call it an egg pot?”
“I call it an egg pot because it’s shaped like an egg.”
“Well…”
“And it’s made out of pots.”
“I see…”
“Here are your moccasins, Mom. Take them. And now you know why I call it an egg pot.”
It was warming up again. Francis and Puck were fighting over a light-up yo-yo which landed Puck in the corner.
“Francis, Mom’s calling you,” Carrie warned him.
“Lord have mercy upon my soul,” Francis replied, yo-yo-ing the yo-yo.
After advising Joe on his resume, I joined Francis and Linnea in a pot of organic macaroni and cheese, which wasn’t all that awesome, actually, while Puck hosed down the windows and glass patio door.
“You know, Collette,” said Francis, on his way to the shower, “Puck smells pretty stinky. Maybe you should dump him in the bath.”
“I do not! You smell stinky!”
Boys. The 18 year-old sporting enough facial hair to now officially be considered a beard.
The Bear called. The first half of his final had gone well. He would complete the rest of it on Tuesday. We were getting there.
Mom and Puck read books together on the porch in the heating afternoon before Mom left. She was meeting Mrs. English to discuss decorations at the church for Annamaria’s wedding in June. Then somewhere between Puck hosing down more glass and Carrie fixing my nails for the weekend, I found a snowstorm of packing peanuts spread all over the basement steps. There could be only one explanation for this destruction…
Francis and Puck.
Neither denied it.
So I put them to work while Carrie took Linnea to her orthodontic appointment. That teeth-pulling went pretty well.
Puck inhaled a Nutella and peanut butter sandwich with a side of carrots for dinner. I had called him inside from his second water bash for school, and then the clouds had floated back in, misting the patio, lightly.
Mom and Dad were out for a date, Carrie had a business call, Joe was going to Jaya’s, Francis was going to youth group, Linnea was joining us at church… Everyone had someplace to be.
Somewhere in the middle of a lecture on Jehovah’s Witnesses, I heard the commanding voice of my son echo down the hall with great gusto, ordering the other children…
“DON’T RUN!”
Louis’ mom turned around to me and covered a laugh…
“He’s going to be a police officer.”
Oh, my son wants to be so many things. Which basically means he’s just like his dad.
