Yesterday morning The Poet took David back to the airport. It was a short visit, but a good one. We went to see the dinosaurs, worked on our basketball skills, played monkey in the middle, and chess. We ate mac and cheese and spagetti and worked on our table manners in case Barack Obama ever invites David the White House.
Most importantly, David and his dad got lots of wrestling time in. Wrestling includes any weapon you have: butt tickles, imaginary swords, and licking the other person's face. Since The Poet subjects me to this treatment when David is not around, I was glad to watch them from the sidelines for a change.
I never got the point where I felt I couldn't keep up with being a parent. (Cooking Thanksgiving dinner was a different story, but that turned out OK.) Before David came the Poet and I agreed that I could sleep until 9am (if I don't sleep until 9 am I am a wreck), and after that I would help out as much as I could. And it worked out just fine.
The only time I had to tell David I couldn't do something was Thanksgiving day.
"Im bored Tanta Noel, can we go outside and play basketball?" he asked.
At that moment I felt extremely parental. I was wearing an apron, I was cooking the Thanksgiving Turkey, I was keeping one eye on a kid, and my man was asleep on the living room sofa.
"I'm sorry David, I can't," I had to say. "I'm really busy cooking right now. Can you be patient until your Baba wakes up from his nap and then he'll play basketball with you?"
As I heard my words I felt the strangeness of them, as if I had stepped into the skin of a different person. How bizarre it was, to find myself suddenly thrust into this very normal role, which previously had been banned from me, and to find myself playing it rather well.
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