Archive for August, 2010

If Paul and Sam were Pups

Sam does not have cheeks so much as Churchill-esque jowls that jiggle when he laughs, quiver when he’s angry, and bounce when he runs.  Unable to resist, Paul pinches them at every opportunity.

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A Tale of Our Cast-away

So Kate went with us this morning to get Mark’s cast off.

Was there she to offer her brother moral support?  To keep him company in the waiting room?  Maybe just to spend time with Mom?

Nah.

She wanted to see how they did it.  She said as much when she asked last night about coming.  Having visions of a future daughter-doctor, I agreed.

Mark, who’d been through the removal before, you remember, having broken his first cast, tells his sister authoritatively, “It’s a vacuum.”

Kate (watching the Thing come closer to his arm):  “It’s a chain saw!”

This is spoken with in a mix of alarm (it IS moving towards her brother) and wonder (it IS moving towards her brother).

Mark (just a bit alarmed now, despite prior experience):  “It’s a VACUUM!”

The nurse:  “It does have a vacuum part.”

Kate:  “The OTHER part looks like a chain saw.”

Modesty

So we were visiting family last week.

My sister, the Grown-up Indefatigable Redhead, was helping her son find something he’d lost.

Mark wanted to help too.

GIR:  “That’s okay, Mark.  Just stay here.”

Mark:  “But you NEED me.  I’m the smartest person in the world.”

Poem for Late-Summer Parenting

The Living Room

August is the cruelest month, breeding
Bare-knuckled fights and hair pulling
Boredom and humidity provoking
Domestic war over broken toys.

Long-awaited summer now is endless
All books read or dull, crayons snapped,
All games, even chess, pointless.

The bickering, the shouting…
I’d like to go drink coffee and talk for an hour
Or ten minutes
To someone with adult teeth.

Do I dare to eat a peach?
There’s only one left.
Someone will wail.  Or two.

In the room the children come and go
Pleading for Popsicles and jello.

When WILL my husband get home?

I hear the children screaming each to each
I do not think that they will let me be.

HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME

Tom Eliot, get your poetic ass home
And take these children out for an ice cream cone.
I MUST HAVE five minutes alone.

And take your damn cats with you.

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