My mind wanders. The “thinker” is often pulled away from reality, for better or worse. Ironically, the latter words he actually told me verbatim once upon a time. I try to remind him as often as I can.
My “grandiose” reflections are interrupted as he decries from the kitchen. I am mid-thought, scrawling in a purple spiral notebook it took me fifteen minutes to unearth; all other pads, tablets, and ledgers filled with a four-year-old’s memoirs. My last notations are a hodgepodge, my pen unable to write through the amber paraffin wax hearts and curlicues displayed across the (incorrectly assumed “blank”) page.
“We need to get him off that thing!”
I am jarred into reality as I acknowledge first the opposer and then the offender. Admittedly, I am more alarmed by the latter. “When did he get that?” I wonder (privately…silently), although I assure the former, “He hasn’t had it very long.”
It could have been a true fabrication. I’m not exactly unsure.
I do wholeheartedly believe in limited exposure. My daughter could tell anyone mommy’s views on the television – “Your brain…it rots” – or, pushing, pulling, breathing, climbing on, above, below and/or in the general vicinity of hard surfaces for that matter – “Your head…it cracks open.”
The attentive parent is intrigued by the chosen application. It’s a sensory overloaded coloring activity – flashy, animated and melodious in an elevator sort-of-way. My son is disinterested with the current scene and peruses other options with an all-too-skilled swipe of the finger. “Pick a Background!” a woman’s voice insists with rollercoaster intonation. I’m interested in what she has to offer.
A pudgy finger scrolls through the choices for me— forest?...farm?...city skyscape?...mountainous road?...flowering meadow?...tropical beach. My mind lingers on the image as I turn toward the window. The cold, gray, depressingly lifeless Midwestern winter day stares back at me. My son chooses a simple black background. I try not to overanalyze the two-year-old decision.
I am already there – Riviera Maya, Playa del Carmen. Senses are still keenly aware of the seduction and enticement… steamy, star-filled nights… lazy, carefree days under the sultry sun… gently lulling ocean waves lapping the shore… bottomless tropical beverage in hand.
“I want milk!”
A vision suspends with a new drink request. I appease the twelve-years-shy-of-sixteen-year-old’s demands before replacing toes in powdery white sand.
My short hem is blowing in the breeze as I meander, gradually making my way from the beach toward 5th Avenue. I stroll along the avenida, taking in the sights and smells – they both sober and intoxicate me. I purchase a hat from a vendor that brands me “tourist,” but I couldn’t care less. A fresh fruit stand lures me in. I quench my thirst with a heavenly elixir straight from the shell and grab a manzana for the jaunt.
I hear the refrigerator door open and the audible crinkling of an opening plastic bag. He has a piece of fruit. “You might want to wash that first,” I advise. He doesn’t hear? He doesn’t care? He doesn’t listen. He takes a bite (i.e., “risk”).
Additional culinary activity reaches my ear. Something is repeatedly contacting a wooden surface – a small patella? There is a pause, and then friction - hindquarters scooting along a smooth surface? Is something being dragged? Is that metal? It’s enough to warrant investigation.
For the umpteenth time in a 24-hour period I stand in amazement at the kitchen threshold. He was just there – he didn’t notice? He didn’t care. A small frame is happily perched on the counter, a jar filled with smashed bread in her palm. She grips a butter knife in opposite knuckles. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to get butter,” she reassures me.
“Thank goodness,” I internally quip as I dismantle the breakneck scene. “Honey, we don’t play with knives, and you shouldn’t get up there,” I caution. “What if you fell?”
“I know. My head…it cracks open,” she replies. I can’t think of anything further to discuss.
“Pick a background!” I hear the cheerful command again as I resume my position on the sofa. With a sigh I grab my plum pad and indigo pen. I take a dip.
The waters are even more crystal clear than the oasis of your dreams; refreshingly cool, providing perfect equatorial equilibrium. You stare in wonderment at the small fish swimming around your toes. Fortunately, you are more awestruck than frightened. You submerge your entire body once more and feel the ethereal sensation rush over you. You return to the white powder that now adheres to your soles. You have not a care in the world as you make your way to your waiting blanket, staking your claim on a small piece of paradise.
“We should probably get him a new one soon.”
Ah, my love calls to me again. I turn toward the point of reference. “I’ll just trim the loose strands and tie them off again,” I resolve. We can’t avoid it much longer, however. It’s quickly becoming a safety concern. I can’t fathom his parting ways with the beloved afghan. It has unquestionably “known” love; so tattered and frayed it can now easily transform a young boy into a super hero. The proof stands three-feet high in front of me with a mischievous grin.
“MOMMY! I’M ALL DONE!”
From down the hall a high-pitched, assertive young voice breaks through the scene.
The “muse” slowly rises from the seat of a wearing davenport. She considers the “blissful” chaos that surrounds her as she makes her way toward the lavatory. “Pick a background!” echoes behind her once more, on cue…
And without a moment’s hesitation, she chooses hers.
Teresa Price resides among the amber waves of rural Kansas. She is a full-time mother and SLP by trade. She fell in love with writing somewhere between puberty and adulthood and has since embarked on a series of gratifying adventures with the “mighty” pen. She is officially a “published” author.
