from one another, fussily stirring the food into
mishmash, they managed to put away three or four
ounces of food.
While Chris was longing for dessert, pumpkin pie,
or mince- meat pie, I began to clear away the table.
Then, for some reason extraordinaire, Chris began to
help! I couldn't believe it. He smiled at me
disarmingly, and even kissed my cheeks. And, boy, if
good food could do that for a man, I was all for
learning gourmet cooking. He even picked up his
socks before he came to help me wash and dry the
dishes, glasses, and silverware.
Ten minutes after Chris and I had everything
neatly stored away under the table and covered over
with the clean towel, the twins simultaneously
announced, "We're hungry! Our stomachs hurt!" Chris read on at his desk. I got up from the bed
after laying aside Lorna Doone, and without saying
one word, I gave to each of the twins a peanut-butterand-jelly sandwich from the picnic basket.
As they ate, taking tiny bites, I threw myself down on the bed and watched them with real puzzlement. Why did they enjoy that junk? Being a parent wasn't
as easy as I used to presume, nor was it such a delight. "Don't sit on the floor, Cory. It's colder down
there than in a chair."
.
The very next day, Cory came down with a severe
cold. His small face was red and hot. He complained
that he ached all over and his bones hurt. "Cathy,
where is my momma, my real momma?" Oh, how he
wanted his mother. Finally, she did show up. Immediately she bec
ame anxious as she viewed
Cory's flushed face, and she rushed away to fetch a
thermometer. Unhappily, she returned, trailed by the