Zoom, zoom. The children are spurting round my parent’s house. The air they displace caresses my cheek almost imperceptibly. They go round a corner, enter the living room, are through the dining room in one huge leap and predictably as Monday mornings they’re back. Vroom, vroom. They’re gone again.
Round and round they go. I flip open the silver cover of my Mac, and immediately they stop. Mom using the computer is a sign of a potentially life-threatening situation. Mom’s attention is not entirely on the children. Red alert. Evolution has done the dirty on me again.
“Mom, I’m thirsty…” “Mom! He hit me…” “MOM! I need your help.” “What are you doing, Mom?” “MOM. If you don’t come right now I’ll throw you out the window.”
Lego time. I’ve promised to “help” them build a castle, which is really a nicer way of saying “I’ll just build the damn castle myself”. This was my suggestion, great. I could be writing.
The older boy is up to his armpits in Lego. They crunch and crackle as he shifts them around the giant old cardboard box. The younger boy wanders past me without his pajama bottoms. Like in the movie Braveheart, he likes his freedom, and one of the things I have learned as a parent is that pajama bottoms are a serious affront to a young boy’s freedom.
Some three hours and several arguments later four horsemen approach the finished Lego castle. A fierce battalion ensues and a white horse is swung against the piano, bouncing off in an impressive curve. Plastic clashes against plastic. Arrows fly across the air, scattering all the way to the kitchen. One by one, all the riders fall down and spears and guns clatter to the laminate flooring. Everyone dies.
“Mom, I’m hungry. Can I get a sandwich?”