Puck's Factory

Bær layered up for a frosty drive. We had – already – reached that level of extreme cold by now that basically made you feel angry if you stand outside for more than eight seconds.

“You think you’re going to Heaven, but you’ll really going in the trash. Heh heh.”

My son was nearly finished with breakfast, and I only hoped that he was talking to his food.

“Who are you talking to, Puck?”

“This orange sticker.” He held up his small oranges.

Later, he listened to the last song of his 2011 Christmas play CD (the one I had hidden about a year ago when he wouldn’t stop playing it over and over and over again; my ears protested).

“I have to take it out now, son. We’ve got to go.”

“Just evaporate it,” he said agreeably. “We’ll listen to it in the car.”

Eject; evaporate. Sure.

Finals were over early for Francis. He and Puck quickly set up shop in the kitchen with red paracord lacing to restring Francis’ lifeguard whistle. Mom took Carrie-Bri and me to Bed Bath & Beyond and Aldi for things like foyer rugs, violet-purple shampoo, platinum hair dye, and German cocoa-dusted chocolate truffles.

When we returned, Francis had just finished the whistle project.

After Francis left to work out with his “besty”, Mom, Carrie, Linnea, and I discussed current life events over pepperoni pizza. (Hey, there’s no rules against pizza on Wednesdays. Anything flies during the holiday season.) Then Mom napped. Every day since she was born.

It was starting to get dark. Carrie had dyed my hair, a golden sort of platinum. Puck had found the sheets of tin foil and the salt box (the cheap version in Carrie’s spice cabinet, fortunately).

“I’m making shaky eggs,” he explained to Mom. “Wanna help me? It could be a shaky egg factory.”

After another loud Christmas pageant rehearsal, Puck decided to unwrap all nine of those tin foil “shaker eggs” on the red couch. Salt everywhere. Bær tucked him into his Angry Birds comforter and thumped downstairs to the Total Gym.