Words : My Son

I lay in the hotel bed watching him move across the room kicking and chopping at the air in his underwear.  He is six, and he is my son. “You are a wild little savage!”, I shouted over the music coming from the TV.  This went on for nearly twenty minutes before he stopped, announced he had to pee, and ran to the bathroom. 

When he came back he shouted , I’m hungry!

Turn down the music!  I shouted back.

I’m hungry.

What would you like for breakfast this morning?

Pancakes and sausage.

What would you like to drink?

Milk.

OK.  I’ll order us some breakfast.

What are you going to have, Daddy?

I think I’m going to have some eggs benedict this morning.

And coffee?

Yes, Coffee.

You always have coffee.

You always have milk.

I like milk, he said.

Should we get the paper?

Yes.  I like the Garfield.  Does today have Garfield?

It’s Sunday, so yes.

Good.  I’m hungry.

I’ll order now.

He found another song he liked and started dancing again, this time in a more jumpy than choppy-kicky style.  He pulled the neck hole of his t-shirt over his head like a war bonnet and started the war whoop.