Round Four

BOOM!

I knew it even half-awake: El Oso had stubbed his toe into something hard. His $400 lifetime-guaranteed boots. Not the first time it’s happened, so I may or may not have pretended to be fully asleep to avoid seeing blood on an empty stomach.

“Blood everywhere,” he reported later.

I’m glad I slept through it.

Dropped off 48 deviled eggs at the Big House that morning. Dad was mowing the yard, everyone else gone while Irish sat glumly behind the coffee table with a stack of math:

“You’re not staying? I’m so bored.”

Life of a college student.

Gloria had birthday prepared per Puck’s detailed request earlier that week:

“Strawberries, blueberries… whole milk… cake… Meat stew! And that’s pretty much it. Oh, and lemonade! Leh-muh-nade. And apple juice. That’s it.”

Once Theodore and Izzy joined the crew, El Oso hobbling on his injured foot, lunch was served. The stew was good, but Puck was having difficulty. Stuffing his mouth with meat, he tried unsuccessfully to swallow:

“But, Mom! The meat just says, ‘EYAAH! Chew chew chew chew chew!’ I can’t chew this anymore!”

Puck un-papered his last birthday gift of the year: a shiny orange-accented Razor scooter, which was tested out immediately in the driveway.

Gloria and Izzy took him to the park while I wrapped up end-game coverage (I like it when Tony Cruz gets a successful shot out there), returning hours later with two cups filled with rocks, geodes, pieces of glass, and a genuine intact beautiful arrowhead found by Gloria. A first:

“Don’t worry, Puck. I will leave it in my will to Izzy, and then he will leave it to you in his will.”

Puck seemed okay with that arrangement. He had stripped out of his muddied clothes from the park, wrapped in a blanket on the deck chair in his blue robot underwear, not too embarrassed apparently.

Weather’s beautiful now. Late white blossoms bleeding into green. Longer light. I think the older I get, the more I like the route to summer.

I cut El Oso’s hair that night after Puck was in bed. Sometimes I just get tired of calculating the rate of uneven hair growth from one side of his head to the other, so I just mowed the half-inch all over his skull. Then I realized that he somehow looked like a Jedi. He asked me to trim his mustache as well, always about eight shades more blonde than his crown:

“Careful,” he needlessly warned.

“Eh, you can always shave it.”

Sometimes I make him laugh.