Getting up too early of minutes

You have been so much fun to have around, Buddy.  I tell you things like, Metro got me up earlier than the birds this morning. You ask, too early?  Yes, too early.  Too early of minutes, Tetro,  you tell him in a scolding tone, pointing a finger.  Metro is a problem as he ages.  He forgets that he ate, wakes up and whines for me to get up to feed him, lifts his leg to pee on the laundry basket, walks out the door to find a bush and stops at my garden boot.  His potty is an endless stream.  An endless problem, I fear.  He got up at 5:15, left the house and the gate was ajar so he walked out front. I heard him howling a few minutes later and stopped making the coffee to see what was the matter. (As I write this I hear a voice in auto mode say, “What’s all the fuss? I can milk the Mickey Way”). He was sitting outside the open gate, but unable to see in and was crying to be let in.  Oh, dear.  He seems so unhappy and confused. Dogzheimers, I fear.

You lie on the floor and draw pictures on the big pad of paper we picked up at Office Max.  You drew a railroad track in Reno, diligently working on intersecting lines, you put them on every tiny strip of available paper infatuated with them.  Then last week it was mandalas, a circle with rays stretching outward around its circumference.  I watched as you twisted and turned your wrist to pull each line from inside the circle outward all around.  Such effort and intent. Satisfied, you flip to a new page and make another and another.  You made a small one and called it baby Liza, your sister.  You suspended your whole family in the middle of the page.  Balloon people with the only rays their legs stretched from the bottom of each circle.  Large eyes, open pools with a long line stretched across for the mouth, she’s happy, you said, standing back in utter delight at your ability.  Next came airplanes landing, cars and cows, too.  The evening we went to see Vicky’s boys play music in Felton, you decorated each guests dinner place mat with multiple “spideys”.  You unfold before our eyes growing and changing.

You run down the driveway to feed the horses changing your gait to a gallop as your run gets you traveling too fast.  You climb the low hanging oak in the pasture, the one I had Salvador prune for you last Fall, clamor up onto the tire swing with eager confidence and make it all the way back up the steep drive without a rest.  You eat everything we offer and love fruit and tomatoes.  We planted tomatoes, peas and flowers in the garden last week and you water them even in the rain, “They’s really really thirsty.” you tell me. We may get lucky and get some food out of them, but it has to get very sunny and I have to keep the watering can hidden for a few days.

Last night we Skyped with Mommy.  She said we’d do it weeks ago, but never kept our appointment times.  We’d ring and ring and she’d never answer.  She’d say she forgot.  Maybe she did. I never told you though.  I just thought once she was on the computer with Liza I’d call you over to see them.  Last night she and Liza showed up.  And we discovered why she hadn’t made the appointments earlier. Your other Grandma told her to hang up.  “Why are you alone in here?  What are you up to?”  I am talking to my little boy, Mom.  She told her.  Hang up and get out here.  She shouted at your mommy.  Your mommy’s face looked sad, then very worried.  I have to go in a minute, she told us.  Daddy said, “Stay on for a few minutes”.  And she did.

Your Mommy has no teeth in front.  Her mouth folds in and her face looks small.  An apple doll. She dyed her hair black and cut it short. Her broad shoulders were bare, rounded. She’s barely recognizable as your mommy.  Liza flopped in front of her, staring blankly.  Mom repositioned her sharply. Liza looked sleepy. We have to get that Liza some sunshine and play.  Walks to the mailbox and lots of time on the floor.  Liza has more teeth than Mommy. Let’s brush Liza’s teeth.  You can show her how to find each tooth; front sides and back. Maybe we’ll get to see sissy soon.  Go on the plane and get her then let Mommy and Daddy drive the car back.  Want to?  Let’s talk to Grandpa about that.  After Daddy gets the tent set up (Darn, yet another rainy day) he’ll go get her.  Let’s make a plan.  All righty, buddy.  Time for hot chocolate.  A special treat today.  Mmmm.  gma

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