P and the amazing Aunt Alicia
With E gone, pretty much around the clock, for a month, our flat had fallen far, far below my comfort level on the cleanly front. I mean, the floor was vacuumed (and all of the "stuff" shoved into, erm, spots), the laundry was clean (and sitting ignored in heaps for those desperate enough to dig)... It wasn't quite CPS material, but.... well, I was feeling a bit basket-casey about it. The word "quicksand" comes to mind. I just couldn't climb to the top of the piles faster than the piles buried me. And we had houseguests coming. Small, midwestern children, to boot, who where already puzzled at the word "apartment." Something drastic had to be done. And E knew just how to accomplish it.
After putting in even more hours, he announced one Sunday that he was taking P for the rest of the day. P announced his usual "No!" right back. I sighed.
Its not that P doesn't like E. (Who couldn't like this man?) And at this age, if he gets regular Papa playtime, he separates fairly well from me. But he'd barely seen the man in a month and he felt no need to leave his life line. But E had a plan. Amidst P's protests he merely mentioned the words "Fire Island" and the Little Man's tirade tired and sputtered to a close. Brief pregnant pause, followed by an excited jump through the air, and the deal was done.
It was almost noon, we had yet to eat breakfast or slink out of our sleep clothes, and I had no idea how they planned to handle a 5 hour round trip (bus, train, bus, ferry) commute and still enjoy their day. But E really did have it planned this time. A quick call to Seth and Alicia (who had just walked in the door from another trip - have I mentioned they're amazing???) and Zip Car and companions were procured. We raced around the house grabbing hats and umbrellas while the eggs poached and suddenly, they were gone.
Leaving me to wonder things like, how did that food get on that wall? Why is there a pile of tissue buried in the records box? Do I keep the bones in the window? Are all of the toys buried in the ficus base permanent additions? And, my favorite, how can I separate out this pile of 287 tiny pieces (of what looks like tiny trash tidbits but is undoubtedly highly prized and mentally catalogued goods) into a recognizable order, without crying? And the ten million dollar question, as always: Where in the holy hell will I put all of his shit?!?!
P trudged back up the stairs nearly nine hours later, sun kissed and happy. The house, I kid you not, was only 2/3rds clean. And I had hauled ass the entire time. Sad, I know. We're really not foul people, I promise. The child just has, erm, sheer, raw talent when it comes to spreading bits and pieces into every nook and cranny of our existence. (This, of course , will be better addressed when I eventually get around to my collecting/hoarding post....) Combine that with being gone every day on adventures, only to come home to cook (aka make more mess), eat, do dishes and then hit the hay and, well, those "collections" can creep....
Of course, E entirely lacks a girl gene and is unfortunately incapable of relating past events. So, once again, I'm not really sure what happened that day outside of scrubbing and shelving. But the kid said he had fun. He told me he drowned 5 times. He jumped over a river to the ocean. He was hot. He discovered a shell with the mussel still in it and returned it to the sea. Oh, and he came home with a pretty pile of stuff to add to his various collections....
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