Did you know Owen knows his days of the week? At 18 months old? He does. This is how I know: Every Tuesday night he starts going “Kruck? Kruck? Kruck?”
Last Tuesday evening, he started with the Kruck and finished by dragging the kitchen garbage bin all the way to the back deck — he would have hauled it off down the deck stairs if I’d have let him. (He’d seen his father drag the garbage cans down that route and was obviously intent on pitching in and earning his keep, the little duck.)
And every Wednesday morning, the “kruck-kruck-kruck” reaches fever pitch, starting the instant his eyes snap open.
All this Krucking, if you couldn’t tell, is about the Garbage Truck. This is the highlight of the week, this Garbage Truck action, and he remembers from week to week. Of course, he kind of “krucks” to himself all week long, so maybe I’m just thinking he knows it’s Wednesday, but whatever. He knows.
This morning he woke up very late — say, 7:45 a.m. — and was krucking in a panic. He could hear the Garbage Truck but — oh, ye fates! — he was not standing at his post! He could not see the truck with his own eyes! And cue the panicked yelling. So I hurried in, swooped him up and ran outside, fast as a cat, into the street so that he could at least watch the truck as it swayed and honked away down the block. You should have seen the light in his eyes then.
I’m hoping my weekly maternal sacrifice (“Where’s the damn truck? Should I make eye contact with the pickup guys? Oh shit, am I wearing pants?” etc.) has bought enough brownie points to earn my forgiveness for leaving this weekend.
