Todd walks into the kitchen and I greet him with a chest/arm/shoulder shimmy. It’s a move inspired by the dancer Emmit Smith, my new (and only) favorite football player.
Quiet as a mouse, I’m alternating between scraping my index finger along the bottom of the popcorn bowl, and licking the peanut buttery goo off of said finger.
Sometimes, it’s mommy’s turn to lick the batter.
Todd joins in and we’re officially in cahoots, no kids allowed. They can eat the muffins. Every week, we go through exactly two dozen peanut butter muffins.
After a while I turn on the oven light to check. When I attempt to turn it off, I accidentally turn the timer off. And when I attempt to turn the timer back on, I accidentally turn the oven off. Todd sits at the table, eyebrows lifted, a happy little gentle smirky smile on his face.
He lives for this. I’m his entertainment. Like when I go downstairs to get my glasses, only to return with no glasses, because I got distracted by the smell of cat poop and changed the litter box instead.
Or when I ask him every day. “Is today Dancing With the Stars?”
He tells me no, then he tells me what days it actually is on, and I promptly forget, knowing he won’t let me miss it.
I ping pong through life like an absent minded professor, sans the professor part. How would I keep track of anything without him?
But for now that’s just between you and me.
For now, I turn the oven back on, shoot him a warning glare and simply say,"Trevor".