"You keep it. Keep it for me," she said. Then she said right afterward--"Please."
Holden hates it when Phoebe says "please" to him. It depresses him. I think it has something to do with the kind of childish desperation the "please" represents. Phoebe wants to stay near Holden, wants Holden to stay near her. That's why she begs him to hold on to her "dough.".
This morning, my five-year-old son told me a secret. He leaned into my ear and whispered, "I got a hat for Uncle Paul for his birthday. Don't tell."
"Oh," I said, loudly, "you don't want me to tell anyone that you got a--"
My son crammed his hand against my lips, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he said. "Don't tell." And then he followed it up with the inevitable--"Please."
It made me feel guilty, even though I was only kidding. Kids have a way of breaking your heart without even realizing they're doing it. On Monday morning, my daughter is having surgery. It's a minor procedure, done right in the surgeon's office. My daughter is terrified, and nothing I say will assuage her fears. I'm simply going to have to sit in the exam room with her, give her my hand, and let her squeeze the hell out of it.
I wish I hadn't teased my son this afternoon. I wish I could have the surgery on Monday instead of my daughter. Neither of those things are possible. My job, as a parent, is to feel guilty and to buy my daughter ice cream after her appointment.
I'm still working on my Christmas essay, so I don't have a new poem this evening. I swear I'm not being lazy. I'm writing all the time. I'm going to write some more after I'm done with this post.
Saint Marty has a deadline to meet.
Confessions of Saint Marty