I have no idea why I am even bothering to do this. At first I thought I would try to write about my day, then my sons, and then it seemed like a good idea not to think, but just to write and see what comes out.
I’m wearing my black cotton t-shirt, faded shorts, and black flip-flops. My 6-year-old son, Horace, commented that I wear the same thing every day after I come home from work. I agreed. He pointed out that my clothes are probably stinky. I agreed. He then went on to mix some chocolate powder into two plastic Ikea kid cups for my wife and I who were sitting at the kitchen table.
Chocolate milk is a special drink in our house, and he was feeling very generous because he had been given a packet of cocoa from his Grandma, and realized that it could stretch for other customers. Things were going smoothly until his younger brother Melvin who is very 3, came upon the scene and wanted, not only a share of the precious chocolate milk, but needed to have it in the YELLOW cup which was already in use. Mel is in the Yellow Room at Preschool, and thus feels all things yellow belong to him.
Any time after about 4pm in the evening, any situation like this can blow up into a huge drama. Life turns on a dime. One minute we are thanking Horace for serving us his precious chocolate milk , and the next minute the household is in turmoil, because of the use of a yellow cup. Somehow I think my wife or I put the fire out and the yellow cup was securely placed in Mels chubby little hand, but it was a close one.
One thing that usually changes the temperature in our house is when I lie down on the play room floor. We used to have a dining room, but when Horace began to walk, it felt like it was either the dinning room table, or Horace’s forehead, so the table went out to the garage. The dinning room became a playroom with pillows and to. There was no where to sit, but on the oriental rug. This was very intentional. So when adults come into the room, they are operating at kid level, and not the other way around.
If I get home before dinner, and the boys are in that early evening zone, the best thing for me to do is lie on the floor. Inevitably, Horace or Mel come by and plop down. Mel is liable to race in and jump right on me. He expects me to catch him. He has nearly thrown himself out the playroom window on more than one occasion. After a few jumps Horace shows up and tries a head stand right next to me, toppling down on me at the end. Our cat, Ed,discreetly jets through the dining room, but both boys see him,and race after him disappearing upstairs.For a while it is quiet. But quiet is not always a good sign. A door slams, there are shouts, and more slams. My wife keeps moving around the stove, using body language to tell me she can’t check it out because she is making dinner. When I get upstairs I a tearful Mel informed me that Horace zipped a miniature basketball at Mel.
Horace tries to defend himself from behind the closed bathroom door. Somehow it gets resolved. Dinner happens. A bath happens, and somehow after races down the hall, toothbrushes buzzing, pajama negotiations, and a coin flip to see which parent will put down which kid, both boys are read a story and left listening to story podcast in their beds under the glow of night lights. The day is over. My wife and I can finally catch up and talk.
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