The #1 son has lodged a complaint that he has not been given his due in my blog posts of late. That hardly any of it is about him. He knows, because he Googles his name and the blog name, and only reads those posts where he is mentioned. I'm thinking of renaming him Narcissus.
Okay, so I neglected to inform the internet of his antics Saturday morning, when he waltzed around shirtless, putting his hands behind his head, tilting a bit, elbows akimbo, like an early movie-magazine pin-up photo of Rock Hudson. Be careful what you wish for, son.
This afternoon he plopped onto the couch, legs extended over the armrest. "Toss me a pillow. I'm cold."
"They're pillows. Not a comfy comforter."
"Blah, blah, blah." That may have been accompanied by a talky hand motion. I tossed him a fat square brown tweedy pillow. He placed it over his chest. "Give me another one." I tossed. And for good measure, I threw the third one. His blankie of many pillows lasted about thirty seconds. #1 jammed all three square pillows under his head. Then he did it. He defied the principles of physics and the law of gravity.
HE LEVITATED, SPUN FROM HIS BACK TO HIS BELLY, AND FLOPPED BACK DOWN ON THE COUCH CUSHIONS. It was all one motion. I suppose he was suspended momentarily by his head on three pillows and his calves on the couch arm. But it looked like he levitated. He did not, however, settle softly like a hovercraft running out of air. HE PLOPPED.
I started to giggle. He laid like a plank, arms down his sides. "What?"
"Excuse me. I must call the bleeding heart PETA people to rush out here and shove you back into the ocean."
#1's back started to jiggle. He chuckled. He laughed.
I'm going to miss my little blog fodderer.