Swingers
The boys in my house swing things. Real things, like golf clubs and baseball bats. If there are no clubs or bats around, they swing whatever is available. A broom, a yardstick, a fork, maybe a paint roller extension handle. Whatever. Today, I found Jono practicing his swing with a pair of scissors in his hand. "Don't swing with scissors," I cried, and then I stopped myself. A mother can only scream so many stupid clichés. Jono told me that he had been working on his swing earlier, with the plunger, up in my bathroom, which explains why I had found the plunger rolled halfway across the bathroom floor. It had been masquerading as a bat, and been thrown down in the "dugout." There is a dent in the ceiling of my bedroom, courtesy of some club, iron, or wood. I really have no idea. I just know that when I found it, there was a look of complete sheepishness on Adam's face, with no other explanation than the club dangling in his hand. There have been holes in the basement wall that NO ONE will claim, but I'm not completely ruling out my husband, who is the biggest swinger of them all. He's trying to blame our 7-year old. That's low.
When we arrive home from anywhere, neither my husband or my son comes inside. They remain outside, rain, sleet or snow, swinging things. Sometimes, they swing nothing, and just stand on the driveway in perpetual swinging motion, invisible club or bat in hand.
This shouldn't annoy me, and often it doesn't. Sometimes it does.
"Where is your dad?" I will say? If he is nowhere to be found, he is on the driveway, swinging a club, real or virtual.
In my family room, against the back wall, there are always putters. Under the chair in the corner, there are always balls. Every single morning of my life, I put them in the garage, and every single evening, they are back, sometimes complete with head covers. Adam has been away for five days, so I've been five days putter-free. It's been like a Christmas miracle.
Until the swinging plunger, of course.
Adam will return home tonight, from a swinging. . . I mean, golf. . . trip. You can bet your life on the following fact: he will arrive home, happy and relaxed, thrilled to see us, having had a wonderful time, grateful for my support. I will be in the family room, and he will put down his suitcase, and stand before me, swinging nothing, as he tells me all about it.
It will be nice to have him home.
This is so funny and well written!
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