Chip is back at work, and I am baking a birthday cake for two granddaughters who are celebrating January birthdays tomorrow. One turns three and one will be thirteen. (Impossible? Apparently not.) Mateo’s brother has the pukes and his mother isn’t feeling great either so he’s spending the day with me. As we checked for sugar and baking cocoa, Mateo asked when I will go back to work, and I told him it sort of depends, as I don’t have a job like Poppy does.
“Are you really an author?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Well, I’ve written four books. I think that counts.”
He remained skeptical. So I showed them to him.
Then, I realized it is January 6th, the Feast of the Epiphany– and I had a little one. It is the anniversary of my son’s appendectomy adventure. I think it was 22 or 23 years ago, but my math, especially when it comes to family matters, is not the best. I do know that Mateo is the same age Christian was when it happened, and that it is still snowing outside my January 6th kitchen. Christian is here too– he’s in the yard splitting and stacking wood.
I gave Mateo the Epiphany emergency story to read for himself, and now I’m giving it to you.(Again.)
