You’re So Mature
16 August 2013
Up in Tahoe, and Enzo and Teresa have these marvelous juicy colds. At night they sleep together and I sleep in Enzo’s twin bed, all in the same long attic-like room upstairs. The hope is that I won’t get sick. Fat chance, but I appreciate the effort.
Last night they each had one of Enzo’s blasters in bed. The blasters emit red light with each blast. So Teresa taught Enzo the concept of long and short blasts to make a code, and they were taking turns coding messages—long-long-short-short-short-long-short—and translating—mama Kate has the biggest butt ever recorded. And so on. I was reading Oliver Sacks’s book on hallucinations and ignoring them.
“You’re so mature!” said Enzo. That’s one of his favorite expressions these days, and it’s not a compliment. He also says, with exasperation, “Girls! I just don’t understand them.”
Last night we saw bats. The neighbor told us they’d been coming, so after Enzo was all bathed and pajama’d, we read books out on the upstairs porch, waiting and waiting as it got darker and darker and almost too dark to read and we kept seeing birds and thinking they were bats and finally it was almost dark and there they were with their flight that’s nothing like a bird’s. Swarms of them, as Enzo said. They stayed for about twenty minutes and then they were gone.