Monday, August 30, 2010
"Flush. the. toilet." I shout. "JACK, you have to FLUSH the toilet when you poop."
Craig pokes his head in the bathroom, raises both eyebrows. "I've told him like five times today," I say. "JACK," I call again.
"Ok, Momma," he says.
"There you are. Did you hear me?"
"You HAVE to flush the toilet."
"Ok." He nods serious like, furrows his brow, "Ok."
He makes us notes, that Jack. He cuts up papers, small, like my hands, and scribbles out rocks, people, letters. "Here, Momma," a note. "I'm giving this one to Daddy," he says, "because he can fight the best and this one to you because you normally write words." I smile at mine, zigzag edges. He smiles at me.
Later he sits on the couch, "I wonder why Daddy's so amazing," he says and wrinkles up his brow. He lets the thought turn a few revolutions then slaps his knee, "I wonder why Daddy's so amazing."
I shake my head, "Me too." The boy squints those eyes, and I see it: little boy replays a Daddy-moment there in his mind, memorizes him. He plays it over and again. It lasts forever there on repeat. Those blue eyes give him away. He studies amazing until it starts to rub off.
"Yup, pretty amazing," I say. The boy shakes his head and drums off to brush teeth. I wonder how he has time at all to remember to flush.
151. Salty peanutbutter pretzels.
152. Mason canning jars.
153. Genius friend who helps me organize my kitchen. For fun. (!)
154. Sister-in-law who laughs when we find red wine vinegar in six different cabinets.
155. Fresh garden cucumbers.
156. New vacuum, orange and gray.
157. Three pies in one week. One blackberry, two peach.
158. Husband gone and back safe from work trip.
159. Gallons of fresh clean water any time I want.
160. Dad able to breathe well enough to run again.
161. A big ol' garage sale to raise money for Spring of Hope.
162. The house tidy. For a moment.