Fork Crying Out Loud

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First draft.

This morning started with a five person huddle in my bed.

Four of the five were freshly-slept, wrinkly pj-ed and one (me) was squinty-eyed and grateful to wake up and see sunshine. My partner, the sixth person in our establishment, had abandoned the mothership (our bed) for a twin mattress in the girl's room. I found him hopelessly half-body-wrapped in a tiny fleece blanket, his size thirteen feet dangling a good twenty-four inches off the bed, asleep with a grimace on his face.

"Comfortable?" I asked him as I came into hand him the baby for what we call The Breakfast Hand-Off.

From that point on the morning was packed with getting ready and consuming cereal and breaking up occasional fights until I realized it was past time for Anson to head out the door for school

"Anson! We're late!" I said in my pink-and-green-Pollock-inspired-nightgown (so hot)(thanks Mom!).

"Anson! Your hair!" I said again as I dashed for the hair brush.

"Girls! Where is the brush?" I yelled into the vault of mess known as the Green Room to two unresponsive girls willed into imaginary play.

When the girls were of no help and the brush wasn't recovered and the clock was staring at me like I was a bad mom, I quickly pulled open the utensil drawer and produced a fork.

"Mom! What are you doing!" Anson said to me laughing.

"Let's just try it." I said as I firmly started combing his hair like no big deal (but in my head I was like, this is IT. I am out of my mind. This is how it ends.)

But wouldn't you know it, the fork was a fine instrument for my son's boy-band inspired cut. When I was done, the morning light from the kitchen window showed a perfectly smooth and silky hip head of six year old hair.

(I should practically start my own production line of Hair Forks! Great for Salads and Hairstyling!)

But not today because there was so much to be done. And we needed to vote, do some community service (and by that I mean take the old loaf of bread to feed the ducks at the community pond) and clean the splotchy microwave.

It seemed like the day slipped by until about five o'clock when we all went to the school's playground and played on structures made of cold metal grounded by woodchips. Christopher kept Iris in his fleece vest the entire time with her blue eyes sitting on top of her charitable cheeks just below the zipper. If we are good for anything as parents, it's showing our kids the upside to ingenuity.
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The sunset has started it's job of disappearing earlier in the day and it forced its way through the playground maple tree and on to the leafy grass reminding us to head home. I went hunting for our children while Christopher shooed off a couple of kids who had designs of taking Anson's and Erin's balance bikes around the park without permission.

When we arrived back home Anson said he had something in his backpack to show me. When I unzipped the big pocket I discovered a half-sheet paper at the bottom of the bag. It was a drawing of an airplane made up of squiggly lines drawn in black and purple. Above the plane was the orange inscription: ANSOIN.

"Maria drew it and brought it to me at school today," he explained to me as I looked it over.

"Wow. How nice!" I said to him, "What did you say to her when she gave it to you?"

"I said, That's actually pretty a good drawing Maria." And when he told me this his boy band hair flopped into his face, making his head tilt a little for his eyes to see. And I realized this was my son's first experience with a crush. And pardon me, but it was maybe the top ten cutest things I've ever experienced in my lifetime.

And I had one of those moments that mothers have from time-to-time where I looked at my boy and saw him as an independent being, not just my son, but his own self. And I thought about all the people who will see what I see in him--a kind, good-hearted, creative soul who likes to make others feel safe. And I thought, They are so lucky to know him.

Because he is dreamy.

Fork-combed hair and all.

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