My parents were up for a few hours the last day and night. They had a dirty bluesman concert last night at a local venue (the tickets for which were thoughtfully provided – at $100 a pop – by a friend of my husband’s) and graced us with a few hours of their time. My mom came home smashed, which would have been awkward had I been single and the friend I brought home been a guy I was dating. But I’m not and it wasn’t so it was all good.
This morning I solicited my father to fix a Freecycle floorlamp we have that went tits-up. Then the pair of them whent out for a breakfast grocery run this and brought me home such helpful groceries as coffee, toilet paper, and eggs. What else do we need, really? Oh, half and half for the coffee. Holy shit! They bought that too.
I love having parents.
While enjoying our morning repast my parents were shocked and awed at my son’s particular ravenous nature regarding eggs. I mean he actually hunkers down next to the plate and uses the fork as some kind of excavation unit and crams them in, large mouthful after mouthful, barely breathing while eating. “Don’t get your hand in there!” my dad warns us.
Me: “It’s like he’s an alien inhabiting a human body for the first time and revelling in hedonistic pleasures.”
My mom: “I wonder what he’ll be like when he discovers sex!”
Me (ignoring my mom, to my dad): “Could you move his bib a bit so he’s not spilling on his shirt?”
My dad (to my mom): “Are you still drunk?”
Sophie asks for milk from the fridge; I tell her to help herself. “It’s too heavy!” she wheedles, and my mother dutifully gets up to perform the duty.
Me: “Grandma’s going to get you your milk, because she has a soft spot.”
Sophie: “Where?”
Me: “Um… Kind of all over her body”
Before breakfast Nels had spent the morning tucked into an armchair next to my dad. My tousle-headed son, snuggled under a blanket next to his grandpa. Quite content to sit for many minutes at a time.