Bang trims, watercolors, mango slices.
Musical reenactments in the sunroom, her stage. She wants to know how to spell Gaston, needs to borrow a tote as a prop, asks me to put ‘Kill the Beast’ on repeat.
For a bit, I say, sliding the door shut.
She remembers candied pecans and puzzles from last winter, and our tradition begins. Yesterday, we add Bing Crosby.
Already? Ken says.
We have gone on two dates in two weeks. The first, to our favorite restaurant – leisurely, quiet, local – the second, to a bustling corner with cloves in the margarita. The child seated at the table next to us orders well: just the cheese dip, thanks.
On our first date, we talk about the future and other people. The second, we talk about now and ourselves. Many of my doubts, much of his sureties.
But you’ve always said…
At home, we hug in the kitchen, a jealous dog scratching at our legs.
A gift from Bee: five sheets of paper stapled together, presented to her father. It’s a clipboard, she says.
The toddler wants a ball or two, or many. When he’s thirsty, he makes the sound of a caveman; a grunt, or a mouthwash gurgle. He asks for pots and pans by cocking his head toward the cabinet, another grunt, a single eyebrow raised and the shrug of his shoulders. Poon? he’ll request, and he stirs imaginary breakfasts with the spatula I offer.
Have you taught him baby sign language? someone asks me last week.
But he already has his own.
A gift from my mother-in-law: a Ziploc bursting with acorns. For throwing, she says.
A quote in my journal: “I love you forever’ really means ‘Just trust me for now,’ which is all it ever means, and we just hope to keep renewing the “now,” year after year.” -Adam Gopnik