The child is sick and sleeping; the cat is tired and sleeping.
The child is the third victim of the latest plague to enter this house. The cat is dreaming whatever dream cats dream.
The child is the third victim of the latest plague to enter this house. The cat is dreaming whatever dream cats dream.
There’s a sense of peace to this scene. Notice the clean kitchen. The chief bottle-washer for this meal has just finished cleaning up the food and dishes left by the ravenous company of children, three of whom are now upstairs entangled in a bathtub. The sick child has kicked off his blanket and sleeps curled in a classical pose, face pale, hand placed beneath his cheek as if deep in thought. The cat, the appropriately named Sphinx, sleeps in his usual fashion when exhausted, sprawling, front legs stretched out. Tonight his head and shoulders are crushing some drawing by one of our resident artists. The blanket below the sleeping boy offers pictures of ducks and fences, the blanket above geometric images reminiscent of a Turkish carpet.
This is that time in the evening when the two parents of the house work feverishly and with their last ounce of strength to get ten boys and girls into bed. It is that time of the evening when some of the younger boys and girls act as if they have never heard of the concept of sleep. Finally, it is that time of the evening when the chief bottle-washer of tonight’s supper plates, cutlery, pots, and pans retires to his basement apartment to write pieces like this one.
It is a tranquil looking scene, yes? So very peaceful. Given the season, we may want to break out into “Silent Night, Holy Night.” But hidden behind the picture are some harsher realities. Mama rose six times the previous night to tend the little boy in his illness, and Daddy attended a meeting to raise money for charity until midnight, then crawled out of bed at 5:30 and went off to work for twelve hours. (Only heaven knows what knocked out the cat).
Tonight the bottle-washer/your correspondent raises a glass to all you mothers and fathers, especially those of you in the thick of the battle, fighting to earn a living and raise your children. May God bless you and keep you.
As for you, Sphinx, sleep well and watch out for the two-year-old.
This is that time in the evening when the two parents of the house work feverishly and with their last ounce of strength to get ten boys and girls into bed. It is that time of the evening when some of the younger boys and girls act as if they have never heard of the concept of sleep. Finally, it is that time of the evening when the chief bottle-washer of tonight’s supper plates, cutlery, pots, and pans retires to his basement apartment to write pieces like this one.
It is a tranquil looking scene, yes? So very peaceful. Given the season, we may want to break out into “Silent Night, Holy Night.” But hidden behind the picture are some harsher realities. Mama rose six times the previous night to tend the little boy in his illness, and Daddy attended a meeting to raise money for charity until midnight, then crawled out of bed at 5:30 and went off to work for twelve hours. (Only heaven knows what knocked out the cat).
Tonight the bottle-washer/your correspondent raises a glass to all you mothers and fathers, especially those of you in the thick of the battle, fighting to earn a living and raise your children. May God bless you and keep you.
As for you, Sphinx, sleep well and watch out for the two-year-old.