Small Scribbles

There is illness in the house, a hacking cough deep in the chest, a general lethargy. Six of us are inflicted. One is healthy. One has a weird rash. It's nerve wracking but there is some humor mixed in as well. These chuckling scenes played out in quick succession and begged to be recorded in pixels. I broke out the camera to dwell on the joy, minimize the pain. One coughs and the healthy one cowers. Let's hope he stays healthy, he's on a plane in the morning. Synchronized coughing on the sofa designated for the plague. This needs a skull and crossbones. Sign on a bedroom door. It should really hang on the front door. And this. Whatever this is. We're going through rolls and rolls of the stuff. Ah, well. March in the Northeast is made for colds and misery. Who are we to escape unscathed?

We had to backpedal and find an easier children's Bible for Charlie because the Children's Story Bible is beyond his depth and breadth of knowledge. Still, he listens in when I read to Claire and Faith, "I know about those, Mama," he tells me as I read the story of the pillar of cloud and fire. "A firepillar is like a firefly." Right...like this firepillar? And for his own Bible time with his easy Bible story book, I point to Adam and Eve and ask, "Who are these people?" to which I receive this confident reply: "That's Adam and Jamie "

At our house, at any given time, we are either almost out of milk or all out of milk. Lauren phoned during the appetizer portion of Stuart's birthday date to let us know that the current milk status was nil. After we finished up dinner, Stuart and I went, hand in hand, on the milk safari. We made it safely past the patio furniture and the tiki bar and the summer dishware to the farthest corner of the store. Two gallons of milk in hand, we made the trek back through the financial death traps, cursing store planners and their wily skills. We almost made it out of Kroger's with just the milk when I spotted the Butterfinger eight pack. The self-checkout aisle beckoned and because Stuart was with me and doesn't have the same issues with self-checkout bagging that I seem to have, we sallied forth to make our purchase. I scanned the first gallon. "Please place your item in the bagging area." Cinderella's stepmother spoke to us in her pleasant yet condescendi...

"Please, John. Grab me a package of ground beef from the freezer." He's mailing laundry and the freezer is only a few steps away from the clothes room. He comes back empty handed. "Did you forget?" "Did I forget what?" "The meat. You forgot the meat." "Oh." A few minutes later the meat appears on the kitchen counter. And then, "Where was I going?" John is holding an armload of dolls and looking bewildered. "Might you have been going to put those in the girls room?" "Oh. Right." He's back in a bit with an explanation. "The problem is, Mom, that I keep passing through the Fogs of Forgetfulness . They seem to be thickest in the hallway." I chuckle with him. He will have to do battle with the Fogs of Forgetfulness for his entire life but humor is a powerful coping mechanism. One that I hope holds my absent-minded boy in good stead as he sets out to make his mark on the world.

"Tim, stay out of the water. You are down to your last dry outfit." "I'll just roll up my shorts. That'll keep 'em dry." "Tim. Stop. I would like you to come up here on the sand." "I'm fine, Mom. See? The water is only up to my ankles." "Tim! Your backside is soaked!" " Only a little. I'm mostly dry. I'm just in up to my knees." "Wow! Look at this shell! I think I can get it." "Tim?" "Tim?"

Stuart, my darling , The hours crawl . All thirty-six of them. I count the days and the hours until your return. I know that this is necessary for work and all and I will bear it. I must . I will be strong for you; and I will tend to your children and your home with strength and cheer . But the hours do crawl and the days run together and I know not the date and this afternoon, while I carried the memory of your sweet smile in my heart, I sauntered to the beauty parlor that I might be made beautiful for your return. But in my befuddlement, I arrived seven days too soon for my appointed hour with beauty. However, my kind worker of magic took pity on me in my forlorn state and she waved her sharp and pointed wand in order to render me worthy of your attentions and affection. (The paint that you showered me with in loving kindness is now nearly gone.) And in the dark watches of the night, I dream of your deep and even breathing. In my restless sleep I reach for your still...