How to addle a Pixie.

It’s a plot. Damn it! … and what is it with guys and keyboards?!

So here I am up early. I’m frowning at my monitor, trying to puzzle through conflicting and hard to read digitalized microfilms. I’m tapping the “H” key with some irritation, not hard enough to make it “type” something. Just hard enough to make a noise. … I’m working, trying to write. It’s not happening, but I’m focused. A slight head ache is forming. It’s me or abject confusion. I’m determined it will be me. Pixies can be determined … when we’re not distracted.

Got all that? Good …. In walks Knobby Knees. He’s straightening his tie. A sly, slightly silly, grin is on his face. Remember that famous painting? The one where they guy has swept up the cute piano player and they kiss. She has one finger on the keyboard? Knobby Knees does his version of that … live at six am … except the keyboard belongs to my computer and not a piano. We no longer own a piano, and daughter 1’s electronic keyboard is upstairs. It’s a very nice kiss. Lovely.

At the Keyboard

If he said something, I didn’t hear it. My ears were buzzing. He walks out of the room, and I stare at the monitor trying to remember why Ship’s Lists from the 1840s were important. I am not succeeding.

Daughter two walks in. “Hi, Mom,” she says. “You’re red in the face. You okay, Mom?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. I’m fine,” I say

“Did you look at my essay?” she asks.

“Huh?” I say.

“My essay. … You were going to proof read it.”

“Yes … Yes, it’s on the table. It’s good. Read it over.” My ears still buzz and I’m a bit dizzy and out of focus.

Dau 2 says her thanks and zips upstairs. Someone thumps down the stairs. I hear commotion in the kitchen. I smell coffee. Dau 1 brings me a cup.

Now Dau 1 is a very perceptive lass. … “Lose your focus, Mom?” she asks. “Dad looks nice this morning, doesn’t he?”

Sudden Buzzing in my Ears.

I nod. I thank her for the coffee. I take a sip. “Good,” I say. That’s a truncation of “this is good.” But she knows what I mean. “Kiss you, did he?”

I blush and say, “Shoo. You’ll be late if you don’t get dressed.”

She laughs on her way out.

A few minutes pass. Daughters 4 and 5 enter. Does the phrase “hem and haw” mean anything to you? Well … that’s what they do. Finally daughter 4 elects herself as spokes person.

“We want to camp out in the back yard,” she says. “Tonight.”

“It was 14 degrees last night (That’s -10 c for the forgetful). There is no way that you can camp out when it’s that cold.”

“We can use the arctic sleeping bags. They’re good down to -50,” she says. I can tell they’ve though this out … sort of. Maybe.

“No. Not a good idea.”
“Dad could put up the big tent.”

I shake my head. “I’m sure he would love to put up a tent in the back yard when it’s freezing out.”

Irony is lost on Daughter 5. “I’ll go ask him!” she shouts enthusiastically. She’s off like a no-see-em in June. (That’s a very small, nearly invisible, fast flying bug. Just so you know.)

Dau 4 persists. “We could have a fire.”

“You’re not making a fire on our back lawn. …”

“Dad could do it …”

Knobby Knees walks in. “What’s this about a camp out? In this weather??”

“I’ve said ‘no’ in a dozen ways,” I say. The dizziness is returning, and I find my thoughts jumbling up … So it’s a good thing he takes over.

“You can camp out in the front room if you just want to sleep in a sleeping bad. Bed time is the same. It’s too cold for anything else.”

He shoos them off to finish dressing for school.

I stand up, close my eyes and whisper, “I want another.”

Eyes Closed

“Another what?” he asks. “Certainly not another child …”

I bonk him on the chest. He laughs. He gives me “another.”

I’m trying to sort out life. He’s in the front hall shouting at children about the time. I hear the clump of feet. The door slams. In a minute the door opens, and daughter 3 trots in.

“Dad says to remind you he’s only working half a day.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’d forgotten. Thanks.”

She’s off, and it’s quiet, and I’ll probably not get any real writing done today.

He Works just a Half Day