flu-id: helium and flying sheets

Today my son said, “Look Dada.” He was standing on the arm of the big leather arm-chair.  He held down a helium balloon, let it go, jumped from the chair and caught it in mid-air with a flying side kick as it launched itself towards the ceiling and landed square on his feet on the carpet with a smile.

I can make the bed, I think to myself after reading those lines again a month later…I can toss a sheet and land it without a sound or a ripple in the fabric on a hide-a-bed in front of my favorite window on an island somewhere west of west of never, but sometimes I can’t find the words to say something so simple that will move my son to brush his teeth.  He’s seven…you got one, you know what I’m talking about.  There is a checklist…right? 

There is a fragile balance and uncanny synchronicity between the flick of the wrists and the Norman Mclean fly rod cast that spends itself in the roll of the sheet into an S-wave.  It catches the intent of flight, looks skyward and holds the ripple of a breath from my finger tips until it is just there, right there, too late to notice the down wind force to follow.  The white light of seven panes is trapped and the dream of my shadow passes through the shutter to the lens on 10 second timer until the sheet falls flat, perfectly perpendicular, motionless in all dimension but direct descent…exhale. 

I can’t sleep right unless the bed is made…and it is one of my simple pleasures in life to see it there untouched the moment before I climb in.  The truth be told, it is a pleasure and a relief at just about any point in the four days I am home with my kids (and yes, the at the end of 10-12 hours the other three days too).  I can’t stand to walk past the room, past the half-open door, if I can see the sheets and pillows in a pile.  Not that I dust and vacuum or sanitize to extreme or any of those other OCD Howard Hughes germaphobic antiseptic habits but that the thought of passing by having missed that simple brush with perfection in the midst of the daily chaos of helium balloon kicking and “Me Me pee-pee in tichen (re: ‘kitchen’ in 2-year-old talk) is one of the countless unabridged measures of completion in an otherwise fluid reality.

flu-id: n.  A continuous, amorphous substance whose molecules move freely past one another and that has the tendency to assume the shape of its container; a liquid or gas.

adj.
1. Of, relating to, or characteristic of a fluid.
2. Readily reshaped; pliable.
3. Smooth and flowing; graceful: the fluid motion of a cat.
4.

a. Changing or tending to change; variable: a fluid situation fraught with uncertainty.
b. Characterized by or allowing social mobility

Like I said, I can’t sleep right unless I make the bed…but I can’t imagine, recall or even presume I would enjoy a day of perfect predictability in my life.  Can you?  Would you?  Do you?  What if there was no plan tomorrow?  Just make your bed, brush your teeth and go…

Welcome to my world.  🙂

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This entry was published on August 15, 2011 at 11:43 pm. It’s filed under Laugh, Life, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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