What One Side of the Brain Doesn't Think Of
“I’m decorating the house for St. Patrick’s Day, Mom.”
Puck might as well be my morning newspaper. Each new headline is different. And today’s was hardly unconventional. Usually I’m too groggy to bother sorting out the final details of whatever repercussions these announcements might incur:
“Okay, bud. Thanks.”
Some minutes later, I heard him talking to El Oso down the hall:
“I put shamrocks on your shoes for decoration, Dad. I put one on each shoe. Okay, Dad?”
And, indeed. Sparkling green shamrock stickers on most available surfaces: coffee table, piano, framed photographs, Chinese gong … someone was in a festive mood:
“Isn’t that great, Mom? I put them all over the place!”
“You certainly did, pal.”
I had eggs going in the kitchen when Puck waved El Oso off down the driveway, informing him about something that had to do with the house, the windows I think:
“We’d better get that taken care of, Dad, you know. The rainy seasons are about to begin, don’t you fink?”
I guess it was sometime in the late morning when I found Puck reclined on the couch – probably between a dance party and a writing lesson:
“Arrrrgh, me hearties! And tittle me bum!”
Whatever that meant. I also discovered that he was somehow under the impression that I had once owned a pet pelican:
“Why would you want one of those, Mom, seriously? They’re so stinky!”
Quiet Hours have been a little … quieter … lately. Puck is starting to more fully comprehend the drill. Except for a state-wide tornado drill, and one notice called down the hall to my room:
“Mom, Crackers is trying to get milk from my legs. She thinks I’m her mom. Can you warm up some milk in the microwave?”
I boiled up beans and rice, fish in the oven for dinner, while Puck enjoyed a good forty-five down the road with Anna and Eddie in a soggy backyard. He slogged his way back home just before five, leaving the muddiest wellie on the front porch.
“What’s for dinner, Mom?”
“That gumbo thing.”
Puck paused, eliminating all pretense of politeness, rose from his seat, and made a show of leaving the kitchen:
“Puck. What are you doing?”
“I think I might take a nervous breakdown.”