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.
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...."
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