Everyone in our house has a cold, though Lucas and I seem to be the healthiest of the sicklies. Phil lost his voice, and Abigail found it, screaming as she does, like one of those kids on a Saturday at Ikea. And while I want all of us to feel better, I was kinda diggin’ Silent Phil. "You can’t yell at me. This is bliss," I half-joked. Then we went to play tennis, at night. On lit courts at the country club. There was a wedding going on, so we were playing with "At Last" as our backdrop. It felt more elegant than tennis whites on real grass courts. But before we began, I warned Phil that he was going to get his ass handed to him.
"Ready for me to brutally pulverize you?" he whispered in the faintest voice. There’s something to be said for whispered threats. They’re funny.
The tots grow strings of snot, clear, not yellow anymore. Lucas trusts me completely, lets me dig up his nose with an aspirator. He actually giggles when he hears the noise of his wet boogers as they’re sucked out. He also likes the shape of the bulb and the steamy squeal it blows when I press it for him. Miss Abigail needs to be strapped down, both hands locked away, her head pinned to the floor with my forearm as I try to get near her nose. She wants no part of such things.
"Just trust me!" I find myself yelling. It would be more effective in a syrupy voice. Actually, no. No, it wouldn’t. She wants no part of anyone cleaning up her hanging snot or going near her nose. And I kinda love that about her.
I love that Lucas is so trusting and sweet and that Abigail is exactly as I was. It’s not just that you have two totally different kids, who grow so differently. I love that each child lets me experience such different things, such different emotions. "Hold still or I’m going to wipe the floor with your nose," I whisper to her. Then she smiles. Threats are funny when they’re whispered.