Little Toughie Flies a Kite

We had a false spring over the past few days. It was warm and windy and beautiful. Everywhere I went, people were outside taking advantage of the weather. We were no exception. I spent more waking hours outdoors than in. The children were out even more than that.

Saturday evening, Nick told me about football in the backyard with the kids. I knew that they had been out there because I heard the squeals and giggles through the window. Nick told me that they'd been tossing the ball around and tackling each other. At one point, Claire snatched the football from Nick. She held it in her hand while giving the sinuous booty-shake that is universal among 4-year old girls - a sort of nya-nya-nya-nya. Then, in a moment of pure brilliance, she said, "You think you can get his ball from me, Little Toughie?" When I finally stopped laughing at Nick's portrayal of Claire, I determined that his nickname shall evermore be Little Toughie. I might occasionally shorten it to L.T.

Sunday blew in from Kansas. Jake took one look at the wind and unearthed the pocket kite that Santa had left for him. Unfortunately, Santa is a cheapskate. The pocket kite experience was a vast disappointment for both Jake and Little Toughie. It was such a disappointment that L.T. made the trek to Target to buy a bigger kite. He arrived home with a 55" Spiderman kite and a maniacal grin. "Jake! Let's go out into the backyard!"

"Erm, Nick..." Our backyard is a city backyard. It's large by city standards but only because we don't have a garage hulking back there. The entire backyard is scarcely larger than the footprint of the house. "I'm not sure there's enough room for this big kite back there."

"I know what I'm doing. It'll be fine. JAKE! CLAIRE!" I zipped my lip and watched them go out the back door, the kite tails stretching from out the back door, through the porch, and into the kitchen. I giggled when Nick shut the door on the ribbons.

I had just settled myself into a chair when Jake came running back into the house. "I've got some good news, and some bad news, and some good news. The good news is that we got the kite up. The bad news is that the kite got stuck in a tree. The good news is that Dad got it out." Little Toughie hollered from the back door that they were going to the park and thirty seconds later, I was alone and laughing.

Time for a new plan.

Nick and I fight about three things: housework, sleep, and my Time magazine. I have had a subscription to Time for as long as I can remember. I read it from cover to cover every week, except for the Man of the Year issue. That one gets pitched immediately. Many years ago, I'd read the entire magazine the day I received it. After I married Nick, I handed it to him once I was finished. Once Jacob came along, I couldn't read the magazine that quickly. It takes me all week to get through it now, in 5 or 10 minute bits. And therein lies the problem.

Nick somehow manages to carve out entire hours of his days to read magazines. Once he makes it through his two subscriptions, he starts eying my Time like a vulture eyes carrion. As soon as I leave it defenseless, he swoops in. Then he takes it off to some secret hidey hole. Well, perhaps not so secret. He generally takes it into the bathroom, out onto the back stoop, or to a truly secret location. Later in the evening, I sit down with my tea and a cookie to and discover that my reading material is not where I left it.

I really don't mind sharing my magazine. What I mind is Nick's complete lack of understanding that it is my magazine. He can read it, but he needs to put it back where he found it. This is a tricky concept - this idea that things belong in certain spaces. If he wants to drop his own magazines all over the house, then that's his business. But I expect my magazine to be returned to me. And so the fight begins again.

In the past, I have threatened to buy Nick his own subscription to Time. It's an empty threat and I know it. Not only am I too cheap to shell out the cash for two subscriptions, I know that Nick will lose his own copy and steal mine anyway. On Monday, purple with rage after a 15 minute hunt, I wrote "PUT ME BACK! I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU!" in black marker all over the front and back of the magazine. Then last night, I saw it on the back of the toilet, which is most assuredly not where it belongs.

I think I'm going to start hiding it. I have the perfect location - near my chair but out of sight. Nick will be a little less informed of the world's affairs, but we'll be fighting about one less thing. It's really for the good of our marriage.

Every Little Thing

Nick and I went to see The Police yesterday. I was ridiculously excited about it, telling pretty much everybody I've seen in the past week. A surprising number of people raised an eyebrow and asked me why on earth I have business with the police. Perhaps my image is not quite as meek and mild-mannered as I believed. Perhaps I give the impression of hiding an illicit hobby beneath my earnest demeanor. I like the idea that people think, even for a moment, that I could have secrets. I don't, of course. I'm exactly what I seem to be. But, BUT! The possibility exists.

We got the kids all squared away with their beloved Grandma Joyce and headed off to the show. And it was good. But more than that, it was good to be with Nick. I like feeling him move next to me, not quite on the beat. I like the way he leans over to tell me the upcoming song after the first notes are played, "It's Walking on the Moon!" too excited to wait for me to figure it out myself. I always know that I love Nick - that's never a question. It's nice to be reminded sometimes that I really like him too.