Steady as She Goes
As Dad would always tell us kids throughout the years whenever hard times hit – “this too shall pass.” Well, 2015 had sure been hard and I was pretty glad it had finally passed.
When I saw the clock at 4:49 that New Year morning, I was so surprised Yali slept through a rare night without crying – especially with the firecrackers and pan-rattling I must have also snoozed through – that I couldn’t get back to sleep for another hour or more.
In the diminishing bedlam of another holiday season, we found ourselves planted at the original Silverspoon home in St. Peters for a second consecutive afternoon of “whatever”.
As soon as Puck walked in the door, he beelined for the fridge. Taking after his Uncle Francis he bellowed, “FOOD!”
“Is that a question or a statement?” Paul asked from his laptop. “A declaration of intent?”
For an eight year-old boy, probably all of those. A few minutes later both my boys were walking around a strangely quiet house with fat fistfuls of banana until they relegated themselves to the back yard to build a catapult on the tree swing with a board and some rocks.
It was early evening. Ansel had just finished staging and snapping another Norman-Rockell-esque annual Silverspoon family portrait. We’d added two kids to the mix since last December bringing us up to thirteen total members.
Then Curly and Lulu fried up fish for dinner. Between musical tours across the U.S. they dabble in the culinary arts. The sun was already well low in the west at five-fifteen when Mom walked through the door to join the party and fish tacos were served on the Texan-sized counter for dinner, followed by Kitty’s homemade cookies as she discussed “Star Wars” with Oxbear and Paul.
Puck begged an Izze from the fridge to go with the meal. I was reluctant to allow it after the soda from earlier in the afternoon.
“It’s okay if I have this one, Mom!” he said hopefully, indicating its high fruit juice content. “This one has health in it!”
Speak of the devil – Gloria had left a box stuffed with Reeses on the counter. She gets me. I’m not exactly saying I’ve survived off a diet of mostly chocolate and quesadillas the past few months. But I’m not exactly saying I haven’t, either. Oxbear eyed me suspiciously as I went in for another handful from the dwindling supply.
“You know, Collette, now I’m just going to have to get you more of these on the way home.” Then tossed me another one from across the living room.
Maybe my New Year’s resolution should be: “Choke down a salad once a week for gosh sake, man!”