Spoiled to Death
2:09AM. Splitting headache. Half-asleep, I found an Advil, blamed the headache on the weather, and returned to some dream where I was being chased by something, or something else intense like that.
By six o’clock the headache was gone, and I was ready to spend my morning supervising a tableful of eight third grade girls from Presbyterian, Catholic, Jewish, and Muslim schools. Puck would occasionally holler a “Hi, Mom!” from across the aisle as I listened to the gaggle of girls get to know each other a little better during the ice breaker, followed by a chilly teamwork building exercise in the lower parking lot.
I’ll admit girls seem to require less supervision in general – as opposed to the two tables of boys I watched over back in January and November – but I’ve also come to the conclusion that boys are way less bossy.
About two hours later I checked off about 30 kids through the hot lunch line, starved for Chick-Fil-A sandwiches, sat with Puck and his gang for about ten minutes where we discussed spicy food and the size of their schools. And done.
Rain was coming again. I saw a wave of it hanging over Florissant as Yali and I drove down the Page Extension back to school to pick up Puck.
Inside, it was a three-way tug-of-war for Yali’s attention. When he decided to scream at everyone in protest, promises of toys rained down upon him. Sure enough, Bob provided him with an abundance of his old toys, including rubber dinosaurs, horses, and other animals. A veritable toy store in his lap. If this kid isn’t the most spoiled little niño alive!
Later, just before the rain came, we moved to the gym to shoot some hoops while Heidi cuddled Yali and sang to him. He likes that. Occasionally I overheard her and one of the other girls take turns talking with him:
“Now, Yali. Yali. Let’s have a talk. You. Are the cutest baby alive!”
And earlier: “Heidi, do you want to come home with me after church on Sunday so we can go shopping for toys for Yali?”
Spoiled. To. Death.
Loved to death.
Meanwhile, in beard news, at work Oxbear’s facial hair had now been officially compared to the beard of a Civil War general.