I think it looks like a little dog.
But it's really a motor.
A tiny motor that brought heaps of relief after the first one, the one new from the store, just opened from its crackly package, wouldn't work afterall. A boy remembered: a different build-it-yourself something-or-other that he'd fiddled with last summer just might have the same kind of motor. Maybe. A small philips screwdriver loosened several screws, and we took apart that last-summer project. Yes! A little-dog motor with wire crazy-cocked ears, dashed-line eyes, and a dot-round shaft-end nose! The little pooch had no idea that he'd become part of a hovercraft project, but soon enough, there he was, right in the middle of it.
Three boys couldn't have been happier.
Unless, they, in between turns with either the glue gun or box cutter, took short detours down another build-it-yourself road where tomahawk handles turned into rubber-band guns.
Then they shot Willim Blake.
They didn't really shoot William Blake. You know that. He wrote The Tyger, for pete's sake! But, his picture was on the wall, right there above the caption that reads "Poet," and they had rubberband guns, they had rubberbands...
They love William Blake.
Then, there was lunch.
The last of the Winter Soup, divided between five bowls. Slurped down fast because a friend was coming to play. And, boy, did they. From football to hide-out to secret agent, to boot-skating on ice to boarding and slip-slide-sledding down the north-face hill.
They came in then, red-cheeked and snappy-eyed landing each on a stool for cocoa and muffins, and muffins and cocoa. By the time they were done, the counter and floor looked like there'd been double the number of boys sitting there. Some ran off, but one stayed behind to stand on the kitchen bench and form a glob of dough into a bread loaf with three gash marks across the top and everything. His loaf.
The table was set, the friend went home, dinner was served. The candles weren't lit. Because all were so excited to try the first-time Daddy-smoked, Mama-roasted chicken, nobody even remembered about those candles. Mid-meal we noticed that our glow was missing and the fire-loving boy took care of those cold wicks fast.
Dirty dishes took the ten-hand-transport from table to rinsing sink to dishwasher. Three boys ran downstairs. One stool-sat, drawing funnies at his drafting table, two tumbled on the bed to the rap of Toby Mack. Upstairs, the two of us, a newspaper, a book, warm cookies and cold milk. And the muffled rap of Toby Mack.
In time, the dessert holler hauled three boys back upstairs. Cookies and milk, hot shower, hang the towels, mop up the floor (always), warm jammies, clean (sort of) teeth, heaped up boys all over Daddy on the couch. Mama reads aloud. Just one chapter tonight, because she's falling asleep. Yes, falling asleep reading aloud.
A little bit later, after Mama has tucked herself in, and really is sleeping, there will be one more story, read in Daddy voice, from the orange chair in the corner of the boy room. Stories, eternal, from the Book to live by. Two chapters. And prayers. And the same verse that they always quote together, every time.
Daddy walks through, darkening the house, locking doors, bringing the heat down low. Then beside me he is, warm.
Always, always warm.
This day? This day that I've described? It really happened. It was also a day that had stress, questions without answers, frustration, crumbs on the floor, dirty laundry, and not enough time. But, what will I remember?
I ask myself.
"What will I remember?"
Have the loveliest of weekends, friends!