Saturday is sleeping-in day. A rustling beside my bed makes me open my eyes. The pieces of a purple foam crown hang inches above my face. The crown is cantilevered over my nose by a skeletal arm attached to my son Salty, naked but for a pair of fire engine underpants. He says nothing. He is not supposed to wake us up before the phone alarm rings.
Wordlessly I take the crown and begin threading the coil backing through its holes. The little boy is dancing, hopping from leg to leg awkwardly. I have learned to read these dances like a bee’s communications. It is not a pee-pee dance, nor a hurry-up dance, but a dance of general contentment.
I finish fixing the crown which is no doubt essential to whatever ensemble he has removed his pajamas to put on. He snatches the crown and darts from the room without a syllable.
I follow him to close the door. There are some things that young children should not see. And my stash of Cocoa Vienna chocolates from Valentine’s Day is foremost among them.
I love my children, but not everyone is worthy of Cocoa Vienna. And I should have mentioned this before Valentine’s Day, but don’t despair that the Moonstruck Chocolates store in Tysons II closed down because Trousseau in Vienna sells Moonstruck Chocolates! They won’t make you a Mayan Chocolate shake like the cafe, but they do have the truffles.