A Puzzle

Communication is an interesting thing in our household right now. I'm not talking about the "communication" that merits "consequences," though there is plenty of that. I mean just old fashioned conveyances. We have a complicated system of reporters, scientists, psychics, artists and spies, all within our four walls.

For example, Will was sick today. He is in his bedroom on one side of our single floor house, equiped with a bell to ring for help. I'm on the other side of the house getting ready for the day, when June the reporter comes in with dramatic gesticulation, saying that he needs me. Now. He's ringing the bell. He wants something. He's sick. He NEEDS you. While she leads the parade back to her brother's room, still gesticulating, and now doing her prissy walk and slight turn to make sure everyone follows, Clara the scientist asks 1,000 questions: What is it? What does Will want? What's he doing? What did June just say? Finally I get to Will the instigator: What's up? He smiles sickly, but proudly at his busy entourage and the drama that took place between his call and my arrival. He's fine. He wants ginger ale.

Then suddenly, everyone is a nurse. Or a patient. Or both. Hmmmm. Ginger ale. Clara's feels SOOOO sick. June can't walk. Clara wants to help. June will happily carry it to him.

Anyway, with a sick household, our creation for the day was a meager start at a 750 piece puzzle. Mostly, though, we read and read and read and read. Yet even reading renders twisted communication. I am astounded by Will's patience. For example, June's magnetism when playing "Mamas and Babies" pulls Clara away from such a sedentary activity as reading, but she can't stand not to know what's happening. So, as I read to Will, about every four pages, she comes over and desparately needs a synopsis. Or she asks pointed questions that practically call for rereading the entire chapter. The entire book!

Meanwhile, with Clara playing the decoy, June spies on John. Asleep. And then not asleep. And then June must go rescue him. She pouces into his crib, throws up the curtain, and comforts the frightened creature in her lap. Until Clara calls: Mom, John woke up. He's crying. He NEEDS you. Why does June always get to hold him first?