Byron stood in the lobby of the YMCA, trying to get members to sign up as volunteers for a community-outreach event.
He does such things frequently.
I am certain his noble works compensate for my tendency to stay home, speak to no one, and dig through a jumbled kitchen drawer, looking for the corkscrew. The good karma he’s earning extends to the whole family. Of this I am sure.
Still proving up on his vows some fifteen years later, he stood there in the lobby, an “Approach Me, Please” expression plastered to his face, fielding questions about the upcoming event: cleaning up an abandoned lot in the “tougher” part of the city and then celebrating with a game of kickball.
That’s what a toddler does in his Pull-Ups while screwing up his face and turning red, right? He makes thunderboomers?
Oh, but wait. I’m a slow student. He’s making Winnie the Poos.
Thunderboomers can only be thunderstorms, no feces about it.
We’ve had a lot of thunderboomers this summer; the skies have been unstable, unleashing pounding rain every couple of days, soaking the earth, muddying the trails, overworking the sump pump in the basement. On the positive side, this means fire danger is low. Surrounded by lush greenery, our only hint of dry crackles is the haze that has hung over the region, floating down from wild fires in Saskatchewan. On the negative side, these summer storms, alternating with sunny days, have resulted in a thriving lawn.
Also thriving is my hatred of lawns. While I particularly object to them in places where green grass isn’t natural (HELLO, THE WESTERN HALF OF MY COUNTRY!), I pretty much dislike them everywhere. The basis of my gripe is this: lawns want my attention. I want to read books. And the twain shall never meet.
I stare at that shaggy lawn I mowed a mere four days before, and every (*parson’s damn*) blade of grass waggles at me, mockingly. Really? Again with the mowing?
Does Grass not realize that if it would agree to stop growing, I would have time to read more Thomas Hardy? Or, to put a finer point on it, any Thomas Hardy at all, beyond what a quick web search yields when I’m writing a blog post? Does Grass not realize that we here in the house not only hate lawns–we also hate gas, and therefore we use Ye Olde Fashioned push mowers, powered only by our rounded biceps and smoldering rage?
So all these thunderstorms are raining on my reading parade.
They don’t do Paco any favors, either.
Thus, just before bedtime every night, Paco asks, in his endearingly respectful way, “Could I go online and check the forecast?” Yes, honey, of course. And while you’re clicking around, could you swing through Zappos and order Mommy a pair of Danskos?
Feeling nervous, a bit anxious about the storms heading our way, wearing his new bathrobe, he gathers unto him Many Important Items of Comfort before hunkering down for the duration. There’s a book. Or two. A book light. Ear plugs. His complete diva of a stuffed cat, Star (pronounced “Stawww”). Maybe a special pillow. Possibly a pair of minion glasses. Potentially a little gewgaw found in a geocache box.
Then, well equipped to ride out the loud noises in the sky, Paco heads downstairs to bed.
After reading for awhile, he falls asleep. When, some hours later, I descend the stairs to join him–carrying my own pillows, a glass of water, a book, and earplugs–I stop mid-way down. Standing there on the stairs, clutching my Many Important Items of Comfort, I gaze at my sleeping kid.
Sleep softens him, removes all traces of his deepening voice, his legs that ache with growth, the worry about his hair. Sleep makes him three again. His stuffed kitty has fallen onto the floor. His arm above the covers is plump, the elbow dimpled. His cheeks, whisker free, look like cream; I know if I stroked them, they’d feel like velvet.
Instead, I continue down the stairs, grab Star from the floor, and set him on top of my three-year-old-who-will-be-twelve-again at sunrise.
The next morning, Paco wakes, refreshed, and creeps out of the basement so as to not disturb his sleeping mother. He makes himself some breakfast, dons his beloved bathrobe despite the July heat, and settles in front of the computer he made at “Build Your Own Computer” camp. There, completely oblivious to the mess that is his room, he will play, fight, maraud, troubleshoot, contemplate, and become lost in imagination. Although daylight makes Paco twelve again, the three-year-old lives inside.
With that, he dashes into the garage, pushes the button to close the garage door, and races towards me, hurling his 5′ 5″ out and under the closing garage door. As soon as he gets to the door, though, it stops. The magic eye, which detects blockages at the front of the garage, has detected him. The door won’t close if he breaks the beam of the magic eye.
Disappearing again into the garage, I hear him whimsically ding the little bell on my bike’s handlebars. Then he pushes the button again, and this time, when he gets to the magic eye, he’s not only crouching due to the lowering door, but he’s also hurdling. He leaps out, undetected.
Admiring his ingenuity, I pat his back as we walk towards the house, discussing whether our afternoon coffees will be served hot or iced. We’re in agreement about one thing: we need the caffeine boost.
It had been a tough night, what with all the thunderboomers coming through.
Yeah, I dislike “thunderboomers”, too. I think Paco, at 12, should be mowing the lawn. That’s how I earned money when I was 12. We did have a gas-powered lawnmower, although I wasn’t strong enough to start it. My mother would yank the cord, and I would trundle the noisy beast down the street as it sucked up and threw out sand and tiny pebbles to the neighbor’s house whose lawn I mowed every week. Also, I thought Steve Martin needed a pencil. I’m sure I remember him picking up a pencil on his way out the door.
Here on the prairie we have our own phrases. When something is really cool, we cross our arms and say, “Well, now. Boy howdy” in a very deadpan voice. We don’t let ourselves get too carried away here. And your Byron is my Bing. Our neighbors adore her. I’m just that aloof woman whom she lives with. The one who waves but never talks over the fence. And I’m with Paco about thunderstorms. Except I’m askeered to go down in our basement at night. Not because we have a ghost, even though we do, her name is Madge. There are SPIDERS down there.
Why come I can’t leave a comment on this post?! I’ve tried and tried but it tells me I’m leaving a duplicate comment!