It’s been a long week at home alone with the children.
Each day is a greater test of patience, a chance for me to grow deaf ears and tougher skin to the temper tantrums. But my plan isn’t working, and instead of becoming more proficient, certain buttons have actualy shorted out. Chas, for example, is standing in the sun, with too-long hair and wet clothes, cradling a dried-up, dead earthworm. He is pretending it is his baby. And I could care less about that than the way it makes me feel, which is not disgust but a mixture of wonder and pride. How can he be charmed by a dead, dried-up earthworm? My son will surely have no difficulty accepting any child in his life. The world needs men like this.
Meanwhile, I am meditating on my second sweaty bottle of beer. It is still chilled, fifteen minutes from the corner store, and it tastes like college and irresponsibillity and forgiveness. Normally I would wait until 5pm for aperitif, but Damon will pull into the driveway within the next two hours and, with the mericful afternoon, dappled in sunshine (it is only 90 degrees outside right now) and the shaded, inflatable pool, I see no other option but to begin the evening right now. This is as far down in the lawn chair I can sit without falling flat off. And now, the boys are digging in the muddy grass, looking for more worms.
God willing, they will find live ones to care for.
