The parental rubber band is stretching... where's my kid?

After the biohazard incident of January 24th, we declared the apartment under quarantine and decamped to a friend’s house. The King of Everything is in heaven. Two older boys to play with! We’ve watched movies, played board and video games, eaten pizza and pancakes, and we haven’t even been here 24 hours.

One amazing advantage to the suburbs: there’s a playground next door. Next door. And an extraordinary expanse of field. Which is where the three boys are playing right now. If I wanted to be paranoid about it, I could sit in the kitchen and watch them out the sliding door’s window.  I’m trying not to let my imagination get the best of me.  No knocked out teeth on the jungle gym. No broken arms running amok. The boys he’s with are wonderful, patient, and as kind as boys can be. Just the right mixture of concern and teasing. He’s in good hands.

So I’ll sit here and try not to hyperventalate, try not to check on them every five minutes. He’s an only child, and the only child of a single mother, and the only grandson of two grandparents who love to spend time with him… so he’s got some annoying quirks and never shuts up. But these boys can handle him, keep him safe, and teach him a bit about what it means to be part of a tribe.

And I can read a book without answering a million questions about dinosaurs and video games and space aliens. Maybe it will do us both some good.