Me, Scott and a
rubber frog
Realisation dawns slowly with the half-light. There’s a
presence by the bed. I convince an eye to open. He’s staring three centimetres
from my face. 5h50. He’s been up for an hour already – quiet in just a nappy – playing, paging, prattling… He’s soft, polite: ‘Pees mom come
me pay room?’ (= Please Mom come with me
to the playroom?) I drag myself vertical. He trots ahead brisk and chuffed.
I flop on the playroom couch. Sleep.
Alas.
I am brutally assaulted by a reptile.
Scott – with 911-terror – holding the frog to my neck: ‘Mom!
Frog biting you!’
Me, feigning half-asleep shock and horror: ‘Oh no.
Naughty frog. Don’t bite me.’
Scott removes imaginary frog fangs from their perilous
position. Admonishes the guilty amphibian in severe tones: ‘No frog! Smacky frog!
Don’t bite Mom!’ (Aggressive tapping on the frog’s rear parts.)
Frog crisis successively created and averted, I snooze relieved
and he snuggles me and his (mini) Mini Cooper.
Me, Cam and a bowl
of dough
Early evening sun comes still-hot through the kitchen
door and we’re baking rusks, me and Cam. He’s on the counter with greased loaf
tins and egg shells and spilt buttermilk. We’re hunched elbow-deep in dough, four
fists loving the sugary-buttery raw deliciousness ‘til it all comes away from
the sides the way my Mom showed me when I was little.
Me: ‘What was your favourite part of today?’
Cam: ‘Now.’
‘For in him we live
and move and exist.’ – Acts 17:28
No comments:
Post a Comment