I steal his things

and how he deals with me . . . . . . . .

Sid stood in the schoolroom last night, quietly watching and waiting while I took care of last minute school checking.

“Here, Sidney, 3-hole-punch this and put it in your book.”  I hand Sidney his geography pages.

“Three hole punch . . . . . . . ,”  Sid muses, “that brings back a memory.”  He is wearing a little smile.

“What memory is that?” I ask, innocently walking right into it.

“The memory of my 3-hole-punch disappearing from my office and reappearing in the schoolroom . . . . . .when I mentioned that it needed to be put back, I remember what you said —-You shrugged your shoulders and told me  that you assumed I had become resigned to the fact that it was no longer my 3-hole-punch.”

I giggled, though I felt chagrined too.  What had I been thinking?  Sid’s obvious amusement kept the embarrassment from lingering.

We bundled up and headed to the Suburban.  Sid’s work truck had been fixed, and was sitting in the Blue Ridge Tire lot.  He needed it very early the next morning,  so we were off to town to bring it home tonight.

A full 10 minutes have passed and I am still thinking about that 3-hole-punch.  Suddenly, the ole brain synapses make a connection and I see the answer to a mystery wavering within my grasp.

“Is that when you nailed your stapler and tape dispenser to your desk?  Was that AFTER the 3-hole-punch thing?”

“Yep,” he admitted.  “I envisioned you tugging and tugging on that tape dispenser and finally giving up when it wouldn’t budge.”

I laughed.  He knew I was too lazy to attempt prying it off.

In the backseat , the 4-year-old gave a long-suffering sigh and said very seriously, “You guys are just a little tooooo funny.”

One thought on “I steal his things

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