A Fish Fry Friday in the ‘Burgh. A rainy day hours shy of April, but the blooms are out.
Caleb cried when he woke up alone in bed. It was mommy’s 5 AM day. I had a semi-restful sleep on my blow-up bed. Last weekend’s restful nights in my own bed gave me a shove off the couch to the temporary permanence of a real mattress. I wonder what it’s like not to have a bed at night? Would you ever sleep fitfully?
Caleb was calm again as we drove on Penn Avenue to daycare, quiet until we actually reached the street that he immediately recognized. Then he cried again. I reassured him that mommy or I always come for him. He nodded. “Don’t you have a good time playing with the kids?” Nodded again but kept crying.
I probably won’t make it to a fish fry tonight. It’s my fortnightly drive to Bedford for grandparent-parent exchange. When Jacob was small, we went to the Herman fish fry with my in-laws. My father-in-law loved fish. I can remember waiting in line, but I can’t remember the fish. One evening as we waited, the stranger in front of us held out his arms to Jacob; he went right to that stranger. As a parent, you have that wish for your kid to be open and trusting of people and the opposite too. I have that same wish now with my grandson. Be open when I need you to behave that way and wary all other times. But it doesn’t work like that. They choose.