“What the fuck is that?!”
“Oh, shit! Who did…wait, that’s just brown Play-Dough. Gross.”
Chas arrives at the scene:
“Poo-poo?” “Poo-poo?”
He stoops down, picks it up off the floor and puts it to his mouth, eyebrows tilted. “Poo-Poo?”
Corners of My Home
Our kitchen table. This is as pretty as it gets (in the traditional sense), somewhere in the sunny hour between art time and lunch, after I’ve sprayed and wiped the surface, moving the essentials to the center: flowers (thank you John and Amy!), the water pitcher, the empty vase (which will be filled with markers in the final phase of clean up, after they’ve been picked up off the floor) (thank you, Chas), the paintbrushes, and the small vase with forsythia blooms. Yes, it’s already that time.
Take a peek at some other people’s corners.
My Son, the Hit Man
At the park, Ford helped himself to another child’s sand toys while I was spotting Chas on the gym. I watched him engineer his play and block out the rest of the world, as I often try to do when I’m, say, typing on my laptop. So serious! I stood there smiling at him.
The other child’s mother, when I glanced up at her face, was smiling down on him also. Then she bent down to hand Ford a shovel.
“What’s your name?”
“That’s not important.” he responded, like a calculator.