The Recliners

There's something about Aaron, our scappy little neighbor boy. He's a rascal, yes, like all the other kids around here. But there's more. He channels us, especially Bob.

"Am I sick like Bob?" Is what he asked his parents when he got the all over itchies last winter. The pediatrician suggested that awful Sarna lotion, which is also what Bob was using when his bile was trying to escape through each and every pore of his body.

"Am I having surgery?" Is what he said to his mother when she took him to the ears, nose, and throat doc to try to figure out why his breathing would be disrupted to the extent that the school nurse called in the paramedics. His throat hurt, Aaron said. This happened around the time my thyroid was removed.

"I want my recliner." Is what he meant when he cried, pouted, and skulked about because the family recliner was put into storage. Do you know of anyone else attached to their chair? Oh yes, my Husband. Well it's a good thing, because now when Aaron comes over to play and Aidan is not home, he pokes his head into the door to see if Bob's brown chair is available. Do you want to sit in Bob's chair? I ask.

"Sure!" All happy faced, he plops onto Bob's recliner and we realize how much fun it is to spoil someone else's kid. Disney Channel. Cookies. Milk. Bob doesn't even mind sitting on another chair for a while. He understands Aaron.

When Bob's liver came back and we started letting kids in the apartment again after a 4-5 month hiatus, Aaron seemed especially glad. He just pulled up to the kitchen table like one of us, except with extraordinary manners. What would you like to eat? I ask.

"Whatever you have would be fine, thank you." Is what he said in a serious tone.

This is what happens here at Sandgren Hall. Families blend together. And it's not because we are somehow special. It just happens. I suppose the times are special. We all know it's temporary. Aidan eats only mac-n-cheese at our house. At the Mungures he eats East African rice, goat stew, and plantains. If he didn't stick out like a twinkie, you would think he's one of them. Once I happen to notice him, Sam, and Mark from Kenya looking at themselves in the kitchen mirror. "Hey, we're like chocolate," Sam said. "Dark, milk, and white." The Mungures are gone as of today.

I didn't know how to prepare Aaron for Bob's open heart surgery, lest he go into atrial fibrillation's. I suggested that we avoid the topic altogether. Shhhhh, whenever it came up. But his parents must have said something to him because upon return from St. Mary's Hospital Aaron came over and asked Bob about his arteries and valves.

With post-surgical aches and pains the brown chair is no longer comfortable to Bob. Good thing Aaron has an extra recliner in storage. His father brought it up to our apartment last night and it suits Bob and his healing sternum just fine.

With love, T