We pull into the parking lot of the grocery store. The windows are open. Black Eyed Peas are bumping through the speakers. Rowan's curls are flying everywhere and he sucks on his binky to the beat. I hear Finny say something so I turn down the music. What?I ask over my shoulder, eyeing a prime parking spot that's close to the front entrance and a cart stall.(Yes!)
Do you have your debit card mom? I'm not sure I heard that right so I ask him to say it again.
Do you have your debit card? He complies but he's irritated that he has to say it a third time.
Why would you ask me that? I'm genuinely puzzled. He often spits out questions about random things he's thinking about. He's always, always thinking of something but it's usually robots or Kit Fisto or when I will finally give in and let him have a Happy Meal already - Jeez!
You forget it a lot.He says matter-of-factly. Oh my God he's right.
I turn off the engine, now that I'm parked in my super sweet never-get-this-lucky-on-a-Sunday-spot and grab my huge silver tote bag that I carry everywhere. I check the first pocket, then the second larger one and finally the small third one where it's most likely to be. Then I see it, clearly, in my mind's eye. It's sitting on the kitchen counter next to the fruit fly infested package of strawberries I meant to dump in the compost bin, and, of course, didn't.
I spin around and lift my sunglasses, sticking them on top of my snarly hair. I look straight at him and he looks at me, slightly alarmed. I forgot it. I say. He laughs and laughs and then Rowan laughs even though he doesn't know what's so funny. Even I laugh, knowing that I'll have to park clear on the other end of the lot when we come back. (Damn it!)
He's starting real kindergarten soon. In a three-story brick building with real teachers and new faces and hot lunch. I worry about him some days, but I think he'll be just fine.