After breakfast this morning I said to Ali, “Thanks for breakfast.”
Ouest heard this and immediately responded with her own, “Thanks for dinner Mama.”
Everything is dinner for some reason. She knows what breakfast and lunch and lunner are obviously, but still she calls them all dinner.
I dropped Ouest off at school today. Lowe and I hung around with her while we waited for the other small kids to arrive and the teacher to take them all up to their room. The older kids gathered around us as usual, talking to Lowe and saying good morning to Ouest. When the bell rang and everybody started to shuffle Ouest reached over to me, pulled me down to her level, gave me a big kiss followed by an eskimo kiss, and then a big hug. I could have died in that moment of sweetness. Surrounded by all of her peers and yet there was not one hint of self-conciousness. Why oh why do we grow into the people that we are? Why can’t we all be three years old forever? I don’t want my kids to grow up.
Lowe has gotten pretty good at flagging down buses, and he even recognizes the bus that we take around town—the green Sabalo Centro bus. A dozen buses went past us as we sat having an ice cream this afternoon, but when that Sabalo Centro bus roared up he knew it.
He likes bus rides, but far and away his favorite is the pulmonias—the Mazatlan VW-engined golf cart looking taxi. He climbs into the backseat first and sits right up against the side hand railing. Ali slides in next to him, then me, then Ouest on the other outside seat. With the family squeezed in we roar off for our three or four dollar ride around town.
When we arrive Lowe is always the first to say, “Thank you.” It comes out as, “Mmrra meh.” He says it sort of like, “Hey buddy, thanks for the ride.” All cool like, without looking back.