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My Son Josh


 When my son is home sick from school, we do an odd dance.


I know that the hours of nine to noon are my window of opportunity. Josh doesn't need many stimuli then. So, if I announce, we'll now listen to an hour of discussion between Barbra Streisand and Terri Gross.....that's going to be OK.

Around noon, Josh starts to make his own demands. "Kiss my forehead." "Kiss my ear." "Kiss my eye." "Kiss my toe." Also, he picks up random objects and thrusts them at his sister. For example, he might give her a broken crayon. "This is me nice!" he says. "This is me so nice!"

The real war happens in the afternoon. If you're sick, you're supposed to be supine, in front of the TV. That's the rule. But there's only so much Daniel Tiger I can take. Sometimes, I have to switch to "The Simpsons," which Susie enjoys. I swear she enjoys it. She and I have a special fondness for "Bart the Lover," in which Bart plays Cyrano de Bergerac, and sends amorous notes to Mrs. Krabappel. When he has to move on, his father, Homer, suggests a gentle approach: "Welcome to Dumpville, Edna. Population: YOU. P.S. I'm gay."

This doesn't grab Josh--and he responds by pouring red pepper flakes in egg nog, spilling Tums tablets into Dixie cups, and drawing vicious, mysterious lines through all of our holiday cards. (It looks like our family photos have spent an hour or two with the Zodiac Killer.)

The sun sets. At the least, everyone has survived.
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