My last evening in residence, Alli and I cooked supper together. I was making homemade pesto sauce with a food processor, and Alli was obliterating a block of parmesan with a salad shooter. The noise level rivaled that of a construction site, and we carried on a conversation by way of periodic shouts over our shoulders. Shortly after the jack hammering subsided, Chris entered the door with Tim, who immediately demanded an explanation.
“Hey! What’re you still doing here?” You’ve got to admire a person with the subtlety of a rabid rhino.
“Been missing me, huh? I thought I’d stay until tomorrow morning.”
“Ok,” he said, charging into the living room to create mini tornadoes for his siblings.
Supper with my friends is an event that mirrors a beloved, family TV series. Mom and Dad occupy the head and foot of the table, while the children sit like model citizens and participate in the conversation. Chris and Alli have always adhered to a militant type of parenting that has yielded three confident offspring that adults actually enjoy being around. Spooky. I got to watch a clip of this in action since Tim is still in the boot camp phase.
“Hey, Mommy! Listen to this song!” Tim began a repetition of vocal expressions accompanied by frenzied see saw choreography. I turned to take a bite, and when I glanced over, the seat next to me was vacant.
“Oww,” a tiny voice wobbled up from the floor. One of his left flank movements had gotten away from him and deposited him on the carpet.
Alli covered her face with her napkin to keep from laughing outright, but Chris assumed a deadpan expression and said, “Tim is often the victim of spontaneous acts of gravity.” He put the little fellow back in his seat and told him to knock off the horseplay at the table.
After he was excused, Tim raced around the living room with a speed that would have drawn a congratulatory meep-meep from the Road Runner. Occasionally, he blew back into the room to impart a fascinating tidbit to Alli, and the velocity he employed as he rounded the table made my long hair take flight in his jet stream. Alli caught him on what she dubbed a “boomerang trip” and started the little guy on his nightly ritual.
As he was blasting out of the room for pajamas, he looked over his shoulder and called, “Aunt Crazy, would you make me eggs in the morning?”
I looked down at my shirt to see if it said Waffle House across the front.
“Tim!” No other words of encouragement were necessary from his mother. He left the room high-stepping like a Clydesdale and giggling.
© 2012 – Traci Carver