Age 5
Norman Rockwell would have been proud. Mother, Father, their son, all sitting around a breakfast table full of eggs, sausage, toast, milk, butter, coffee. The kitchen was filled with the light of the morning streaming in through the window.+
The father read his morning paper as he ate, had it folded up neatly and placed on the table next to his plate. He listened to his wife and son and their morning chatter.
"How's the cow go?" The mother asked and patted at non-existent stray hair back into its proper place, taking a sip of coffee with her other hand.
"MOOOOO!" came the excited answer from the five-year-old boy; bits of toast flew out of his mouth. "Bobbyhoney!" his mother playfully scolded as she used her napkin to dab at the crumbs. Little Bobby just giggled in that way that only five-year-old boys can do.
Looking up from his paper, father said: "What are you plans for today, Sweetheart?" "Well" answered mother, standing and moving toward the sink with her and her son's plates. "I'm working this morning, then this afternoon the normal errands. Why? Do you need something?"
"No, no, just asking. Will you be taking young master Bob with you to the library?" He winked at his son. Little Bobby, not yet having quite mastered the art of the wink, squeezed both eyes shut tight for a nanosecond then opened them again, repeating his laughter of earlier. Smiling, his father asked: "What are you going to read about today?"
"Fish." Bobby said simply, as if he'd been making his plans all morning.
George Goren piled his silverware, napkin and coffee cup onto his plate and carried them to his wife at the sink. Sideling up against her, he slipped his dishes into the water-filled sink with his left hand, at the same time placing his right hand on the small of his wife's back. He stood a good six inches taller than her, and that was when she was wearing heels. Burying his nose in the hair just behind her ear, he softly kissed her neck. "See you tonight," he whispered. Smiling, she turned her head, so they were face to face. He lightly kissed her lips, and moved back to the table to pick up his paper. Stopping at Bobby's chair on his way out the door, he placed his large hand on the top of his son's head. Bobby lifted his chin to look at his father, his head going so far backwards, his neck rested on his back.
"'Bye Daddy."
George leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Tussling his hair he said, "Have a good day, Son." Then, as if he'd been planning this for as long as Bobby had been planning on reading about fish, he said: "Want to play some ball when I get home this evening?" "Yeah!" Bobby hollered, raising one arm into the air in celebration. Then he moved his arm, throwing a non-existent soft ball into the kitchen wall.
"Ok, then. It's a date," his father said walking into the hall that lead to the front door. As he slipped into his coat, he called back "Be good for your mother today."
"I will." Bobby answered, just before the front door shut.
Norman Rockwell would have been proud. Mother, Father, their son, all sitting around a breakfast table full of eggs, sausage, toast, milk, butter, coffee. The kitchen was filled with the light of the morning streaming in through the window.+
The father read his morning paper as he ate, had it folded up neatly and placed on the table next to his plate. He listened to his wife and son and their morning chatter.
"How's the cow go?" The mother asked and patted at non-existent stray hair back into its proper place, taking a sip of coffee with her other hand.
"MOOOOO!" came the excited answer from the five-year-old boy; bits of toast flew out of his mouth. "Bobbyhoney!" his mother playfully scolded as she used her napkin to dab at the crumbs. Little Bobby just giggled in that way that only five-year-old boys can do.
Looking up from his paper, father said: "What are you plans for today, Sweetheart?" "Well" answered mother, standing and moving toward the sink with her and her son's plates. "I'm working this morning, then this afternoon the normal errands. Why? Do you need something?"
"No, no, just asking. Will you be taking young master Bob with you to the library?" He winked at his son. Little Bobby, not yet having quite mastered the art of the wink, squeezed both eyes shut tight for a nanosecond then opened them again, repeating his laughter of earlier. Smiling, his father asked: "What are you going to read about today?"
"Fish." Bobby said simply, as if he'd been making his plans all morning.
George Goren piled his silverware, napkin and coffee cup onto his plate and carried them to his wife at the sink. Sideling up against her, he slipped his dishes into the water-filled sink with his left hand, at the same time placing his right hand on the small of his wife's back. He stood a good six inches taller than her, and that was when she was wearing heels. Burying his nose in the hair just behind her ear, he softly kissed her neck. "See you tonight," he whispered. Smiling, she turned her head, so they were face to face. He lightly kissed her lips, and moved back to the table to pick up his paper. Stopping at Bobby's chair on his way out the door, he placed his large hand on the top of his son's head. Bobby lifted his chin to look at his father, his head going so far backwards, his neck rested on his back.
"'Bye Daddy."
George leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Tussling his hair he said, "Have a good day, Son." Then, as if he'd been planning this for as long as Bobby had been planning on reading about fish, he said: "Want to play some ball when I get home this evening?" "Yeah!" Bobby hollered, raising one arm into the air in celebration. Then he moved his arm, throwing a non-existent soft ball into the kitchen wall.
"Ok, then. It's a date," his father said walking into the hall that lead to the front door. As he slipped into his coat, he called back "Be good for your mother today."
"I will." Bobby answered, just before the front door shut.