January 8th was a big day chez Johnson. Not because the artist came home at 10am…instead of his promised 8am and offered a lame ‘the phone didn’t work’ excuse when I asked why he didn’t call to let me know. After all, it would seem that people who go 24 hours without sleep of any kind have a higher likelihood of getting in some kind of car accident, no?
But I digress.
First, G informed me that he ‘needed space’ when he was getting dressed. I backed away, not sure what he meant. But he clarified: ‘because I’m going to change my underpants. So, no looking, okay!’
I walked to my room, trying not to chuckle out loud. It’s hard to take a boy’s request for privacy seriously when he, two minutes later, runs to the bathroom with said underpants around his knees. But because I’m such a good mother, I didn’t look.
Next he helped me wash the floor, which had needed to be washed since early December. Or maybe November. He took the teensiest of sponges, soaked it in water (without squeezing dry) and washed everything. The trashcan, the art tables and chairs, and the floor. There was standing water, nearly half an inch thick in some places, when he and the Hen were done playing. As usual, my attempt at keeping them busy cost me dearly, time-wise.
I let him watch the Incredibles, his new favorite movie, while Daddy caught some much-needed zzz’s. He sat on our bed, beside his sleeping dad, intently watching the DVD on the laptop.
When he was done, he closed the laptop and ventured downstairs. He was hungry and wanted a snack. In his Cincinnati Reds lunchbox. Gearing up for ‘big school’, I guess.
He decided a suitable lunch would be a piece of peanut butter-honey toast, cut into four pieces and wrapped in foil. An apple, sliced, and wrapped. And his Thomas flask filled with water.
He then went upstairs with his box, returning ten minutes later to put the discarded foil in the trash and his flask in the sink. He offered to do the dishes, which I kindly declined since the floor had just started drying from the aforementioned ‘flood’.
This morning I asked him what he’d thought of seeing dad’s project the day before. Jason had taken both boys to see the work on the way back from an emergency drill-bit-buying excursion.
‘There were little white pieces lying all around…..but I didn’t play with them because I didn’t want to get sharped (poked?)…they were building a garage….or a picture…or something. I don’t know what they were building.’
Apparently I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand what it is the artist does.