Apparently, anything higher than 120 units per cubic meter is considered an extremely high pollen count. Today in Atlanta, the pollen count is 5,733. The ground is carpeted in yellow dust; the cat making pollen angels as she rolls on the deck, coming up chalky yellow like an elementary school teacher too long at the chalkboard. I’ve been pinned in the house all day, sneezing and itchy from every small foray I’ve made into the outside world: feed the cat, retrieve Batman from the car, get out into the heat and birdsong and sun and leave my life behind for just a moment.
We may have been held hostage inside, but our Indoor Day passed just like any other with the exception of Henry being denied access to the outside world. There was frantic running and chasing and jumping, but there were also lulls of energy for snuggling and napping. There was quiet when miraculously both boys slept at the same time for an overlap of 45 minutes. But mostly there was noise and drama: car chases; fires; trains falling off bridges; Batman and Spiderman repeatedly saved the day. Also, there was hiding and finding; snacking and sorting and whining, tears and time outs and meltdowns.
Henry is now ensconced in his “bat-cave” (a blanket stretched between the coffee table and an upturned laundry basket) holding his “Spiderman car” while he sucks on a binky and nuzzles his blanket. Right now, at 2 and a half, he is a contradiction. He is a puzzle of interesting words and phrases and nonsense; of truths and myths; of baby and little boy. And I love him like this—all mixed up and still snuggly and still mine. His skin is so soft it makes me ache with love, but his legs are punctuated with dull blue and fading light brown bruises, a little scrape on each knee.
Leaving the Batcave, Henry walks towards me and informs me that we are bats. "You are the mommy bat and I am the baby bat. Are your bat wings working on the computer right now?” he asks.
“Not anymore,” I say, putting my computer down, “now they’re free for hugging.”
“And for flying?”
He climbs onto my lap and faces me and we flap our bat wings and talk of going over to the neighbor’s house for a bat dinner.
“What are they having for dinner over there?" I ask.
“Um, stars. Stars and moons,” he says, still flapping.
“Sounds perfect!”
Bon Appetit!
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