P.S. I Love You
Written By Kermit Pattison
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Dawn. I shuffle into the kitchen and find a note from my wife. "Put out recycling, empty trash, pack school lunch, put laundry into dryer. I'm going to sleep in. P.S. I love you." This is as close as we come to a love letter these days. The night shift has left a memo for the day shift.
A few minutes ago, I was ripped in a most untimely fashion from the womb of the warm bed. The first scream came before the sun was up.
"A fire truck can't fly!"
"This one can!"
Our two sons, ages 3 and 6, were locked in a full-throated debate about the aeronautical capabilities of a toy fire engine. Then my older son proved it really could fly, by hurling it at his brother's head. Thunk! Another high-pitched wail.
Maja groaned beside me. The message was clear: Your turn. (She's eight months pregnant and needs to sleep.) She flopped over and restacked the pillows, which have multiplied over the course of her pregnancy and come to resemble a sandbag dam.
I hauled myself out of bed and shuffled into the boys' room. I tried to coax them into their clothes, but from their protests, you'd think I was trying to stuff them into whalebone corsets. They have yet to embrace one of the fundamental rules of civilization: no tantrums before coffee.
I hustle them downstairs and now begin the first negotiation of the day, breakfast.
My oldest flops on the floor and bawls when forced to eat cereal instead of toast. Apparently, I've ruined his life. Sliced banana with that? When I turn around, my younger son has disappeared. Moments later, he begins shouting from the upstairs bathroom.
"Wipe!"
Uh-oh. He's violated the quiet zone. I rush upstairs as the hallway echoes with chants of "WIPE! WIPE! WIPE!"
Too late. My wife emerges from the bedroom. Another rude awakening.
A few minutes later, we're all crammed into the kitchen. Maja and I are like two satellites that must take advantage of the brief time they have orbited within range; we download information in bursts. Doctor's appointment this afternoon, school meeting tomorrow, grocery list, basement pipes getting Þxed. There's no such thing as a non sequitur: As soon as you think of anything that must be communicated, you have to say it before you forget it.
"Sharon called you last night. PUT DOWN THE BASEBALL BAT AND EAT YOUR CEREAL."
"There's a squirrel nesting in the garage, and it fell on the windshield when we came home last night. Is the milk gone?"
"LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE."
"You already poured it in your bowl."
"That shirt doesn't match your pants."
My coffee gets cold. Now what were we just talking about?
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