He gives me the side-eye, a sneaky wicked grin. I am in for it. A few seconds later, he makes a beeline for my chair, sloshing most of the water out of his cup before he reaches me, a small mercy. He aims for my shoes but hits me square in the lap, splashing his baby brother’s toes. Uproarious laughter, from him and me. A perfectly executed sneak attack. Repeat, a dozen times, ten dozen. This water table was a good Christmas purchase. In frosty December, Santa was thinking ahead.
Cicadas buzz. Where we sit would be called “sun-dappled” in a novel. There are crawfish on his swimsuit. I show him the fish printed on the leg of his water table, and he crouches and examines them. A toddler crouching for Serious Study of Things is a very silly sight.
The baby is wide awake and smiley. He clutches a fistful of my hair, and through tremendous, heroic efforts, manages to squeak a few purposeful squeaks into my delighted face. A dragonfly, metallic green, lands on my hand, and then back to a blade of grass, and then hovers in the air. Shimmer.
The baby snoozes now on my shoulder, spits up in my newly washed hair. I borrow the toddler’s cup and rinse myself, then make disapproving noises to the milky face of my snoozing boy, flop him onto the other shoulder. He snuggles into my neck. He can smell that I belong to him.
The Confederate jasmine, its blooms long-fallen, wilts in the heat, and so do we. A few pink welts rise on my legs, one on my big boy’s arm. Inside? I ask. ‘Side, he says, House, and we go in the house for lunch.
I love that you called it Confederate jasmine. We walked past some yesterday and M asked “what we’re supposed to call it here?” and I told him star jasmine. But my southern grandmother taught me what it was, and it’ll always be Confederate jasmine to me.