It’s Teacher Training Day and so four boys are in the woods and one boy is in the kitchen.
My middle boy, usually found at the heart of whatever whirlwind is happening, has been distracted by multi colored couscous on the counter. As much as this boy loves to kick around a ball, tease his brothers, climb poles, and leap from our newly completed tree house, he also loves sensation, art, visual and tactile stimulation, to be snuggled. He loves the feeling of couscous in his hands; he loves the bounce of couscous on the counter.
Have you ever noticed how odd the word couscous is?
The tree house: for two years it’s been a frame in want of a floor. Last weekend I handed out hammers in an attempt to shake my boys and their friend out of their collective stupor, to wake them up to possibility, to instill in them a spirit of construction and creation. Actually, I just wanted them to quit whining at me. And it worked. They installed a solid floor and now they have their own space, to jump from, shoot from, practice the clarinet upon, invite cats to visit. And I had an hour or so of relative peace.
It’s peaceful now, too. My boy in the kitchen is humming. So is the nearly empty refrigerator. Soon I will pack everyone into the van and head for the grocery store where we will terrorize little old ladies with our bluster and chaos. But for a few more minutes, this.