On busy workdays, hours can pass without a single has-anyone-of-importance-contacted-me phone check. This can be unfavorable, because a timely response is nearly always desired. Some days ago, work was like sailing into the teeth of the gale, and as I returned to my three-and-a-half walled slave station, I longingly took that glance to quench my contacts (not-so-) long-forsaken inquiries.
I discovered that only moments ago Brooke had called six or seven times within a few minutes.
This was abnormal; I was nervous.
I promptly returned her call to discover Torin had locked himself in one of the basement rooms. It was dark and gloomy (and maybe even damp and smelling yucky), and he was frightened. Brooke felt helpless, as she was unable to release him from his prison. Decker was wailing. I zoomed homeward.
A flat-head screwdriver and cool turn of the wrist uncaged the innocuous convict. I had ridden in on my silver horse and emancipated the distressed. Dad had saved the day! (That’s what we do.) Maybe there would be milk and cheese for dinner after all. Hooray! Surely a giant bear hug was in order.
But, no!
While shoving my hands back through the opening door, Torin shrilled and impetuously smashed it shut. Huh? He was mad at Dad. His instinct was to blame his imprisonment and pain on another. His discomfort and confinement were of course not the fault of his own. He’s two and naturally blaming.
No comments:
Post a Comment