Before the discussion can continue, Devon’s pounding intensifies.
I glance toward the ceiling. “What on earth is he doing up there?”
“Being a six-year-old?”
“Dumb question.” I laugh. “But he does seem a bit more active than usual.”
She frowns.
I answer back with our unspoken language: Uh-oh. What now?
Jenna mouths—but doesn’t say—trouble at school.
And I feel my eyes start to roll.
“We’ll just table that one for later,” she says. “Okay?”
“Agreed. Indigestion before dinner—bad idea.”
Just then, our little devil comes racing into the room with his best buddy Jake, The Lovable Chocolate Lab, trailing closely behind.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Devon cries out as he barrels toward me, face lit up like a thousand Christmas trees. He bestows me with an arms-around-the-legs greeting, and despite what my wife has just told me, I can’t fight my grin. The pure joy on his face at the sight of me handily trumps all. Because of that, and because of thousands of other reasons, I love the hell out of my son to lengths I often feel are humanly unfathomable. The moment I leave this house each morning is the exact moment I begin missing him, and as the day wears on, I just miss him more. After encountering Donny Ray today, that sentiment is magnified times ten, so I drop to my knees and go in for the hug. He starts to take off, but I tug my son back and give him another, this time clinging to his little body longer. As soon as I release him, he speeds into the dining room, yelling, “Mommy let me set the table! Wanna see?”
I look at my wife and realize she’s been watching me.
“What was that all about?” she asks, head tilting, smile half curious, half concerned.
I try shrugging it off. “Just a rough day.”
“What happened?”
“Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”
After so many years together, Jenna is well aware of what that means, knows there are some things better left at the office. She squeezes her mouth to one side in a way that doesn’t push the issue but lets me know the door is open for discussion.
I struggle for a moment, trying to temper my statement before it comes out. “I guess I just realized how precious he is.”
Jenna’s expression softens. Her nod reflects intimate understanding.
“And I don’t know what I’d do, if anything . . .”
“Ever happened to him,” she says, finishing the sentence that I can’t bring myself to complete.
“Daddy! Come on!” Devon yells from the dining room before Jenna can respond. Jake chimes in, barking anticipatory excitement.
I wink at my wife: I’ll be right back.
She nods and grins: Your boy needs you.
I enter and immediately spot the table.
“Um . . . kiddo?”
Devon looks at me with a brightening expression.
“Who’s coming to dinner?” My question is actually a rhetorical one.
Swinging his arms back and forth, he considers the table for a moment, then with a shrug, says, “Just us.”
“So . . . it looks like you may have a few too many place settings. There are five here.”
He proudly appraises his work again. “It was just in case.”
“Just in case, what?”
“In case anyone else wants to come.”
Kid logic. Gotta love it.
“Okay . . .” I give him an exaggerated, affirming nod. “Fair enough.”
Jenna walks in, takes one look at the table, and her expression falls into something like exasperation mixed with learned helplessness.
“We’ve got this, Mom,” I say, offering her a playful grin. “You never know when we might have uninvited company.”
Devon giggles.
My wife shakes her head, then goes back into the kitchen.
“Come on, kiddo,” I say, “let’s show Mom how quickly we can make the table less crowded. First guy to grab two settings wins.”
Devon is the victor of our race, and the seating plan is amended and reduced.
“So how was school today, buddy?” I ask, probing to see if he’ll volunteer what my wife didn’t.
Devon doesn’t answer, likely as a survival strategy, likely also because he’s too busy rearranging the spinach on his plate.
My son is a fussy eater.
Probably one of the worst I’ve ever seen. I was, too, as a kid, but compared to him, I was gluttonous. Hard as Jenna tries to spur his appetite, there isn’t much he likes or will eat.
“Devon,” she says, trying to strike a delicate balance between patience and assertiveness, “moving your food around won’t make it go away. Can you at least give it the old college try?”
“I am trying,” he protests, then continues spreading the vegetable around on his plate. He takes a stab at—but does not put into his mouth—the spinach, then moves his effort to the penne pasta, mashing it with his fork and separating the mess into two nearly symmetrical mounds.
“What’s wrong with the pasta?” Jenna says. “I thought you loved it.”
“Not this.” A nose crinkle. “It’s got white stuff.”
“That’s cream sauce, and it’s good.”
Devon gives the pasta a disapproving flick with his fork.
“You know,” I say, “if you don’t finish dinner, we couldn’t possibly allow the chocolate cake your mother baked to be your only source of nutrition for the night.”
Devon’s decision is laser-quick. He digs into the demolished pasta.
Jenna grins. And I’m pretty sure I’ve won some major points by restoring peace and order to our little world.
Before sleep, I stop by my son’s room to say good night and find him waiting in bed, Jake close at his side.
“Great job setting the table tonight, kiddo,” I say, taking a seat beside him.
“It was fun. Mom says I can do it again tomorrow.” He scrunches his nose. “But she told me not to set the table for company.”
“Probably a good idea, unless we’re expecting some.”
He shrugs. “But you never know.”
“True, you never do. Always good to be optimistic.”