A battered woman is staying at my house, and her two kids. I feel bad because the place isn’t clean. The dishes aren’t done.
I forgot how children look under everything. Her son, two months shy of three, in one hour-long inspection, found the lost cat toys: every single one of them. Everything demands a brief inspection before moving on to the next wonder.
The left side of his moms face looks like she had a golfball implanted on her cheek bone. When she looks at you, it seems like someone sewed together two halves of different faces.
When his mom says it’s time to go to bed, his big eyes wonder, grasp at why. He asks, “momma, we sleep here”?
Not even three and he’s already mastered incredulous.