Big A and I have just dropped off the kids for an extended weekend at their grandparents. I know they’ll have fun and be looked after, and I know that we’ll have fun. Neither generational set—neither parents nor kids... nor grandparents—will miss each other too, too much in the space of three days.
My only fear is that Big A and I’ll die together and leave the kids orphans. And I’m willing to write out something that makes me sound fantastically stupid is because I’m superstitious enough to believe in the fetishistic value of speaking my fears out loud in the hope that those destinies will be foiled.
As we pull away from the driveway, I’m gazing at the window, waiting for the kids to wave goodbye one more time, but they’re already mesmerized by the glow of the television i.e. already having a great time.
I keep looking back over my shoulder…
Big A : “Those little bastards are going to have a fantastic time, Puppy.
[Pause]
Plus, they don’t care.”
_
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