It’s my time, now. I waited upstairs this morning while the workers installed floorboards. I ran errands, and babysat the boys in a toyshop while Damon tested guitars for purchase. I have read a bedtime story, explained the concept of “gold medal” to Ford while watching speedskating, and tucked him in. I never took the walk I promised myself this evening, but we spent dinner together at a table, and everybody ate at the same time. No, I take it back, Ford talked all during dinner about his new wand. still, we all sat down together at dinner. Finally, it’s time for me to breathe. It’s my time.
Chas is in bed. Every half hour he wakes tonight, which is unusual. He is still wearing his romper from earlier in the day. Strawberry stains, rubbed in by fat fingers, are now dry. Those sweet stains mingle with smudges of vanilla yogurt and margherita pizza to saturate the air around him with the smell of fried churros. He smells like a carnival on a Saturday night. I want to eat him up, maybe dip him in a warm chocolate (for added magnesium and antioxidants, of course). His fine, caramel hair tickles my nose as I try to inhale him whole. His index finger is still bruised from the morning he closed it in the bathroom door, and I ache to look at it. My skin shifts across my back in a painful way at the sight of it. My eyes rove across him in admiration: how he has succeeded to go to bed without washing, less brushing his teeth. A dirty toe looks as if he might have stepped in wood glue, then dipped it into a dusty corner somewhere (surely from the floor installation); it looks as if it’s teeming with a colony of penicillium. It’s really funny, in a totally gross sort of way.
Damon, for his part, is in the boy’s room. He is wearing the 4000-watt technical headlamp I gave him for his birthday. He is lying in bed, under the covers, reading a book. Something science fiction, I am sure, but I didn’t peek when I stopped by to give him a kiss. I’m just happy that he is enjoying himself, donning the headlamp with the “find me” blinker, in case he gets lost among the piles of disorganized toys. Not that I won’t be able to find him by his snoring, which will commence in approximately five minutes. This feature works like clockwork; his ability to fall asleep within twenty minutes after cracking a book in bed is absolutely mechanical. I envy him.
In fact, all of this is making me quite sleepy. I want to sink into something horizontal, letting my mind peacefully unfold. The icy wind shoves the juniper against the gutters, and the day exhales upon me. I slow to a pause, then start typing again, in and out of sleep. But I am forcing myself to type, showing up at the page. I am showing up for the date with my self.
Yeah yeah yeah, this is ridiculous. I’m going to go snuggle into bed with McGuyver and his novel.
