The price of putting three ten-year-old-plus dogs on a strict diet keeps rising, this time by crushed Wonder Woman lunch box number five.
Colorful and (barely still) mechanical, Fisher’s rainbow umbrella has so many uses. Closed, it’s a sword. Open, it’s a shield. It lifts a small child into the air when it’s windy. It doubles as a hairdryer in a pinch. He carries it around the house. He sometimes takes it to bed. He asks to take it into the, um, shower. And, it must come to the park on a sunny Sunday. To make use of its parasol properties, of course.
One busy-ish road separates the house from that school. On the trip back home, a helmeted Fisher is taking care as he navigates the cross-walk over the busy-ish street not to dislodge the umbrella carefully hung and swaying brightly from the handlebar of his scooter. A few steps ahead with Cory, Daddy looks back to watch him push along. An impatient white SUV waiting behind him peels off as soon as the way is clear.
Fisher turns his head and mutters: “That white car just can’t wait like it’s sus-posed to. That’s not nice. We can’t go any faster, though, right?.” Pause. “That white car driver is a F word.” He looks down as he giggles, continuing a careful ascent onto the sidewalk, with unflagging care not to drop the umbrella (wouldn’t want that). He mutters additional inaudible things. It dawns on Daddy that the “we” might not refer to Daddy and Cory. He might actually be talking to the rainbow umbrella itself.
Huh. At least their conversation is polite enough to stop the expletives at “the F word.” But as soon as a “my precious” or two starts drifting out of all that muttering…
True to her gender, Cory is picking up things at school — all the good things and all the bad things — a half step faster than her brother. It provides endless entertainment (read, irritation) to interact with the brat-tastic sides of all her little friends.
“I know you just want to be mean to me!” before stomping off…
“I don’t like you, Daddy!” after making a face I’ve definitely seen on another girl at school…
“Well, then I’m just not going to be your BFF anymore!” getting even madder as Daddy suppresses a smile, imagining what Cory-isms other parents in the neighborhood are dealing with behind their closed doors.
Very early in the morning, Fisher comes out of his room to snuggle with Daddy. He brings his blue-and-white small blanket and his black blanket, like always. After a bit, Daddy carries him, bundled like a baby in his blankets, in to the big bed to snuggle with Papa.
P: Come here, Fisher. Do you want some morning loves?
F: Uh huh.
Daddy sets the bundle on the bed next to Papa.
P (early morning, snuggle voice): Ah, Fisher, remember when you were a little baby, and you were so cute and tiny all bundled up in your blankets, and…
F (approximating Papa’s early morning, snuggle voice): …and you put me in that jar?
Full stop. Daddy and Papa bust out laughing.
Now, Fisher was a pretty small baby, 4.5 pounds at birth. And, although he would certainly have fit in many a vase, there are few jars that could ever have accommodated him, even as tiny as he was, and certainly Papa would never have placed him, gently and comfortably, in any such vase, you know, to demonstrate how small he was, in good fun, pure comedy, you see, whacky-whacky. Anne Geddes aside, who puts in a newborn in a *jar*? Fisher couldn’t possibly remember anything *real* from those early days anyway. A simple explanation for his oddball statement might have been that years after the fact, he had seen photographic evidence of a “jar-putting.” But, since nothing like that would ever have happened, no such photographic evidence could possibly exist. Daddy and Papa aren’t even the type of guys to own one or two or twenty vases.
But, Fisher having such a vivid image in his head, Daddy works with him to capture the misplaced memory in mosaic. You know, get it out. Down on “canvas.” Since no actual picture of the fictional event exists. Now, don’t call it therapy. No, call it art. Pure throwback Thursday fiction, as it were…
F: Can I have a Vitamin C for breakfast?
D: No, sorry, Fisher. We don’t have anymore.
F: Can you just make me one?
D: No, I can’t just make a vitamin, silly. No one can do that. You have to buy them from the store.
F: God, Jesus, and Mary can do that.
D: Make a Vitamin C?
F: Yes. They can do that because they made everything.
D: Well, I don’t think they would be interested in making you a Vitamin C in the morning.
F: They are heroes.
D: Oh, yah?
F: Superheroes. Magical superheroes. Because they made everything.
F: Daddy, did you make me?
D: Yes. Papa and I did.
F: But, didn’t God make me?
D: Well, it takes some decisions and some mystery to make a person. Papa and I made the decisions, and the rest requires a little bit of mystery.
F: God did the mystery?
D: You can think of it that way.
F: Daddy, what’s a “dision”?
D: A decision? That’s a choice. When you make a decision, you make a choice. Here, I’ll make a decision…um, I want Cheerios, not pillows, for breakfast. There, I made a choice.
D: And, sometimes when you make a decision, like to have Cheerios, you know what you are going to get. You are going to get Cheerios. But, sometimes you make a choice and you don’t know what you are going to get. Like, if you decide to say “hello” to someone or you decide to go to soccer. You don’t know if the other person will say “hi” back or whether you will do well or get hurt at soccer. It’s a mystery. Papa and I decided to have you. But, it was a mystery what would happen. We made a choice. And you happened.
F: So, I’m a mystery?
D: Why, yes, you are.
F: Thanks for making that choice.
F: No, thanks for having that de-shision to make me.
D: You’re welcome.
F: I don’t want Cheerios for breakfast, though. I don’t like Cheerios as much as I like pillows.
D: Yes, Fisher. Papa knows you like pillows better than Cheerios. No mystery there.