We had a big storm here yesterday. Didn't last long, but did some minor damage to trees and we had a couple of significant branches down. By the time we got home the power was on again and the storm was over. Still hot as balls though. Jesus god I dislike using the oven when it is that hot. I thought I was going to die there for a minute, with the kids clamoring for EAT! EAT! OOOD NOW! and the sweatyness and then Chris was LATE getting home from work and I barely lived through being that hot with the oven on and the kids cranky and no back up.
Anyhow, when Chris FINALLY got home, he took Owen on a walk. Owen came back, hurried up to me and, in a voice filled with real concern and surprise said, "Oose a ond."
I flair around in my head for a minute trying to translate and come up with, "Goose fell down?" And I must be better at this than I thought because he responds "YES!" in a yeah-can-you-believe-it! tone of voice.
Apparently on their little walk Chris and Owen had discovered that the plastic goose of Wonder and Amazement that the neighbors keep in their yard had been knocked down in the storm. And that's not the worst. Gentlemen, please make sure the ladies are away, but the goose's head had . . . become detached from the body. Horrors.
At this point, Sam has tuned in and hears this talk. Of a walk. A walk which he did not attend, and he finds this a little UNFAIR. So he says, "Should I go on a walk?" Because that is the way that he asks for things these days. "Should I watch a movie?" "Should I have a marshmallow?" No, you shouldn't watch a movie and eat marshmallows, but whatever, go ahead. Especially if Mommy is hot and tired.
So we go on a family walk and Owen, as if he were a malfunctioning robot, is repeating, over and over. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on." Goose gone, folks. Goose gone. The whole walk he is trying to swerve in the direction of the fallen goose of Wonder and Amazement, and refuses to be distracted, refuses to speak of anything else. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on."
Finally we give in and go to gaze in sorrow at the headless goose.
"Oh, God," Sam whispers, then asks, "Can I pat it?"
There is some discussion about whether we should let him wander into a stranger's yard to pat a headless goose, but we decide he should be allowed his moment of mourning. He gets to the goose and pats it, then looks around for the head. He picks the head up and begins to try to reattach it . . . to the goose's butt. He is actually relatively successful and ends up propping the head, with the beak on the ground and the neck attached to the tail. None of this, by the way, is having any impact on Owen's relentless chant. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on."
When Sam gives the goose a final pat, he dislodges the carefully balanced head and I, seeing the rest of my life flashing before my eyes, finally intervene. I discover that the head actually screws on and I can fix it easy-peasy. The goose of wonder and amazement is fully restored.
But Owen, like the mother of a child who has barely survived a terrible, terrible accident, can not forget. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on." No, dude, goose FIXED! "Oose on?" "No, goose FIXED!" "Oose on?" "Can we PLEASE let it go?"
No. We cannot. This morning when I go into Owii's room the first thing out of his mouth was,
"MAMA!! Oose on."