Remember Being Seven?

Another quiet half-rain day at home found Puck and myself sitting on the couch with another stack of books. Stretching out his arms, he hooked some of my hair in the process.

“Careful, man. Don’t pull out what little hair I have left.”

You know, mom-stress and all that. But he looked at me like I was joking. “You have fousands of hair kernels, Mom. Fousands.”

Between drizzles, Puck biked around looking for friends. The little girl across the street always found some excuse to avoid playing with him.

“She said her finger was bleeding, so she couldn’t play,” Puck told me later. “But I didn’t see any blood.”

It starts now.

The evening was pale light, wet, green. Puck showered and got cozy in his too-small dalek bathrobe for more readings on the couch.

“When’s Dad getting back?”

“I don’t know. He’s at a bar right now I think.”

“HE’S AT A BAR?!?!”

“Yes. … He’s with some friends for something.”

“WHERE THEY GAMBLE?!?!”

“No, Puck. They don’t gamble there.”

“A BAR?!?! LIKE A REAL BAR?! WHERE THEY GAMBLE?!?!?!”

“Yes, a bar. But he’s not gambling.”

“They gamble at that place, don’t they.”

“Bud, no. Have you been watching westerns or something?”

“Dad’s gambling.”

“Puck. Bedtime.”

That bedtime resulted in Puck’s prayers, topped off with the cream of a postscript.

“Please help me not to have short prayers. … Temptation’s saying not to say that.”

So I sat back and watched our poor Cardinals pitchers serve up 6 homers to the Orioles, who somehow always seem to forget they used to be a St. Louis team too.

El Oso brought back chocolate to ease the pain.