Moss and Giles started Mother's Day with a mini-riot that resulted in Cymande's first present of the day: 2 hours in bed reading while the boys and I walked to the park and then downtown. Giles tripped and ever-so-slightly abraded his knee which was followed by an emotional recovery (with one relapse). He's like that. Lately, they have both been reporting, "There's something wrong with me." Today, it was Giles' knee and last night Moss explained that it was a small cold car in his ear. Of course, the thumb nail that is hanging off Moss' hand and resembles the overcooked detritus at the bottom of potato chip bag and is a result one of my parental shortcomings is not a problem. He, unlike Giles is more of an optimist. I asked him today, "Moss how is your potato chip?" He reported, "My potato chip is very very good." Also, I really don't like the statement: there's something wrong with me; it's vague and ominous. It's not uncommon for me to get a little shiver up my spine after they report that "Daddy, you're a ghost," or even, "What's that sound?" (and I don't hear anything). Moving on. After arriving downtown Cymande rescued the three of us at Starbucks when I desperately needed coffee and was without my wallet. Later, we had a late Mother's Day lunch with Nana and Papa. And we had haircuts. And watched lizards feast on palmetto bugs ("no mommy, those are cockroaches") that were being released from toy lawnmowers. You know, your traditional Mother's Day.
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