I am writing and writing and also packing and then writing (can't you tell?) when a loud BANG explosion from the living room stops me cold.
There are 4 kids out there (two tween girls and two redheads) so I wait a second for the laugh, the cry, the crash that comes after the BANG.
Strangely enough, nothing.
I think to ignore it, but then, I'm the adult.
I can't wait 30 days to check on my kids.
People hold me to higher standards than that.
So I get off the yoga folded yoga mat and pull myself away from my writing and my Mac and go into the living room unannounced.
There was a Fort in my living room and no apparent casualties.
Zack's friend -- standing over a bicycle airpump that I'd uncovered in my unpacking, repacking and throwing things away -- holds up pieces of limp orange rubber (formerly Zack's favorite basketball) and calmly explains. "It exploded."
I nod my head and point at the Fort then say nothing and return my room, to the yoga mat, to the floor half- waiting to hear Zack scream out in protest that his favorite ball had been murdered.
I wait.
Nothing.
I wait.
He knocks on the door then enters holding the two halves of his basketball in his hands, offering it up to me with a big smile. "Here Mami, we made you a bra...."
