back to being serfs
Well, we just surrendered captaincy of the house. My parents hath returnèd. No more low-fat meals prepared for hours while blasting an LP of “Hair.” No more keeping the clothesline in the backyard throughout the night. No more communal showers. No more perfectly still summer days.
I worked like a Victorian orphan to prepare for their homecoming. The housekeeper is coming tomorrow, so I had to leave an immaculate kitchen along with an immaculate den; all the better to maintain the illusion that there are only two middle-aged empty nesters in the house. Do you know how hard it is to clean a house immaculately when your 2-year-old wants to help? I had to do most of it when he was in bed. Thank heaven the Boy came home on time, so he could put Blake to bed and I could tidy like a dervish. (Two full days is a lot of time with a toddler and Blake and I were getting on each other’s nerves by dinnertime, so some quality time with Daddy was the perfect antidote. I won’t even mention the fact that he soiled his BtB undapants while sitting in Daddy’s section of the wardrobe we call closet. Oops, I guess I just mentioned it.)
I should also mention that Jar Jar, weirdest of Blake’s bosom companions, bit the dust this afternoon. This all happened shortly after the three of us returned from the park, yet one more episode in our surreal life with Jar Jar. First we had to establish riding protocol so that Blake could be dissuaded from carrying Jar Jar in his hands as I rode the bike. Then, when we got home, I overhead Blake explaining where we were and asking if the jar wanted to go to the backyard (and he has been known to speak in an altered “jar” voice.) The two of them took a detour to the sandbox, and they were just coming inside when Blake’s grip slipped.
Boom! Jagged shards everywhere and a wailing toddler. Blake desperately wanted to “hold Jar Jar,” which left me with the unenviable task of explaining that Jar Jar could hurt him now, so I had to collect the pieces because Jar Jar would never want to hurt Blake. Blake cried so long that he forgot what he was crying about. Then he remembered, and cried some more. I held him and tried to remain in the moment, focusing on my child’s pain rather than on the unreality of mourning a shattered baby food jar filled with water. (I don’t want to talk about that part, either.)
Rest in peace, JJ.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*