All they want are the simplest of everything. To play outside. Ice-cream. Watch a cartoon. Hang out with me, which I can’t understand why they would. If I write about people, why the fuck don’ I have three books on each of them already.
Okay…. Going to be hard on myself. Emma, 4 years, 9 months. Jack, 8 years, 6 months. Think I got that right. Either way, that’s a lot of time. And I don’t think I’ve written them adequately. I have more material than I need with them, as Mom reminds me consistently. And what do I have…. Hear Jack outside making a police siren sound, “Wee-ooo, wee-ooo, wee-ooo…” Chasing his sister. She not liking it. Emma on one of those training bikes. Not with training wheels but the kind with two wheels and no pedals, that you just push along. Chasing her friend, the crazy judgmental neurotic neighbor’s daughter. Oh wait, that’s Emma making that cop siren sound. Surprised with how her voice projects.
Jack throws the baseball, a soft one, against neighbor’s house with her son. Nothing could be more amusing to them. I admire them for their simple and contained affinity and production, again. Why can’t we do that. Fucking old people… goddamn we suck.