She held out the knee, eyes filled with tears.
A scrape. Small. Bright. The kind that looks larger to the person who owns it.
I sat on the bathroom floor. Princess Band-Aid. The one with the crown, because the plain ones are "for Daddy."
"Will it stay?" she said.
"No."
"Forever?"
"No. All boo-boos heal. That is their job."
The phone lit up on the tiles.
Work. Could I contribute a values share to Tuesday's team meeting. Emphasis on vulnerability. Two minutes. Authentic. From the heart.
I said I would look at the invite.
She watched my face to see if the Band-Aid had failed already.
I pressed the edges flat. I kissed the plastic crown.
"See? Already starting."
She nodded, unconvinced, and went to show her brother the princess.
I stayed on the floor.
Her scrape will close. That is what skin does.
The meeting wants a different kind of wound, produced on cue, for a slide called culture.
I will not give them one.
Some boo-boos heal.
Some are requested.
I would take the tub and the one car and the map-eating goat again.
I would take the sticks.
I would take Brian the duckling, who is probably not called Brian.
The only private joke I allow myself:
I should have bought an investment property before I turned five.
The children are on the carpet, building a city.
I get down.
I shop online now. Not for ease. For the nerve.
Two hundred used to feel like a week. Then three hundred. Still creeping.
A child asks if the strawberries are for a festival.
They are.
We cut them into the shape that gets eaten.
There is a laugh he can get that I cannot.
Not better. Different.
Airborne, or about to be, or the sofa is lava.
I stand in the doorway with a tea towel.
When it stops they lie on the carpet.
He looks at me, slightly guilty.
I shake my head.
Keep going.
@TheLowkeyMummy The PlayStation is not the point. Two toddlers, a job, and a shared app for the receipts is a long day. Allowance is a strange word for a husband.
We have one.
Kindergarten. Office. Chemist. Park. Goat. Ducklings.
"You take it. I'll walk."
"No, you. I'll wait."
On Sunday they climb in as if it were going somewhere special.
We go to the park.
There is no bath.
There is a plastic tub that lives in the laundry and must be dragged, filled, emptied, dragged back.
They think it is a pool.
She makes weather with a cup. He makes policy with a boat.
Dad kneels on the tiles and does the pouring.
The two faces do not know the room is missing.
The good rug is a ring.
No heads. No shoes. No telling Mum it was his idea.
She pins his knee and declares a government.
He accepts.
Then he stands up, child and all, and they leave the ground.
I think of the man on mute at four o'clock.
This is the same man.
A goat eats the map.
A lamb leans on her shin.
He announces that the rabbit is his friend.
We pay at the gate. We pay for the cup of feed. We pay for the wipe.
She talks about the lamb all the way home.
I listen.
@greenytrades The bank fee has adopted the family habit of appearing in the account without warning. At least the children wait until payday to ask for snacks.