The Salesman
I could tell Puck was feeling uncomfortable when we drove up to school that morning. It was “Cardinals Spirit Day”, and he had opted for his uniform instead.
“Everyone’s wearing Cardinals stuff except me, Mom…”
“Not everyone. And that’s okay. You just don’t like baseball too much.”
“Did you ever like to dress up for stuff?” he asked, as we entered the building.
“Not really.”
“I guess I take after you then,” he said, and that seemed to make everything alright, even though I was – of course – wearing a Cardinals t-shirt.
Around here, when my sisters and I ask each other, “Who are you wearing?”, it’s not for the name of the designer; it’s for the name of the ball player. We each have our favorites, mine being our giant Oklahoman left fielder capable of destroying your hand with one handshake, and of course the retired big Dutch Texan switch hitter now back in Houston.
Back home that morning, I sat at Oxbear’s desk, trying to get Yali’s speech therapy program started. So what did that little sucker start doing right in front of my eyes, but pick up a pencil and begin shamelessly drawing on the wall. Punk.
Sometimes I think the after-school hours impromptu playdate committee is expanding its numbers. Today the total was at about seven kids, give or take. And when half of them run off to play hide-and-seek, there’s no guarantee you’ll get out of there before four o’clock.
By the time we got back on the road, things were afoot in the back seat.
“MOM! MOM! Yali won’t swallow his pretzel! It’s DISGUSTING!”
“I know. He’s been holding it in his mouth for about twenty minutes. Here, have him spit it out in this.”
This was a little too much for Puck to handle, apparently.
“MOM! MOM! MOM! HE BARFED IT! HE BARFED IT!”
Nothing like navigating heavy traffic on the Page Extension with my eight year-old dry-heaving in the back seat. I rolled down the windows.
Back home, Yali begged for raw bacon while I made dinner. And Puck tried to con me out of several boxes of my books destined for Amazon.
“Mom, how about you give me those books for my library? Every. Single. One. That you’ve been worrying about for months. For just one hundred dollars, I’ll take them off your hands.”
Oh boy.