We’re sitting around waiting for the game to come on. Almost time for supper. Not sure what we’ll have. Toys are all over the floor. She gets out another without picking up the others first. That’s what four year olds do.
In our sweats and pajama bottoms, we wait for the Super Bowl to come on – or at least two of us are waiting. The black clock on the wall shows that some kind of meal should be being served, but not sure what will be fixed, or by whom. Maybe hot dogs. The living room floor is cluttered with dolls, puzzles, tea sets, and a crazy Zhu Zhu pet running around. The girl with light brown hair has no concept of one toy at a time. She’s just a normal, healthy child having fun.
We’re dancing around the room. He has his Steelers game shirt on, she’s wearing her new black leather pants and two inch heals, and I‘m wearing my now-too-small mother-of-the-bride dress from ten years ago. The sixty -inch television is set to broadcast the World Series. The grandfather clock that sits in the foyer strikes seven o’clock. It’s time to eat. We’re ready for the chef to serve a meal. Smells like roasted chicken, twice-baked potatoes, green bean salad, and fresh yeast rolls with cinnamon butter. The floor of the sitting room looks like Toys R Us emptied it’s stock there. The blonde headed boy sits and cries because there are too many toys for a twelve year old to get a handle on. He should be happy, but he’s not. He just sits there.