It's a lazy Sunday morning. I'm out in the dining room, drinking coffee, while the Golden Weasel and the Brawn eat breakfast, and the Boy makes sure everything is just so: plants waters, silverware put away, the absolute necessities of proper living.
I pour another cup of coffee and am about to head downstairs when I make a brief stop in what the kids refer to as "Mom's Bedroom" — yes, for the record, it's also where I sleep, but that's just a detail. They know what's what.
Naturally, the Brawn shadows me, because at age almost 11, he still hasn't come close to growing out of his mother worship yet. (For that matter, neither have any of his older siblings.) As we stand at the foot of the bed, Top Management looks up from her reading, an eyebrow raised in a way that's simultaneously imperious and fetching, with just a soupçon of amusement.
"Only one of us can be in here," I say, glancing down at the enormous head of tousled yellow hair next to me. "Which one of us do you choose?"
Top Management and the Brawn both laugh.
She then smiles and snuggles down into the covers just a tiny bit more. "Me," she says.
POSTSCRIPT:
The Brawn and I yelled in acknowledgment of our mutual defeat.
"Why do I even try to match wits with you?" I grumbled.
"What he said," the Brawn agreed.
Posted by: scott | Sunday, November 24, 2019 at 12:47 PM