|Master magician Jay and me in our living room|
|Kids cleaning the backyard for the party (guess how this ended...)|
Fifteen years of kids' parties has made me cynical about magicians. They're either really grumpy or their tricks so drawn out you cease caring.
But Jay was on another level. He guessed the names of our childhood friends. He asked Cy, 8, to bring a book out of his room and turn to any page. It was Harry Potter and Jay guessed the top line. He handed Tallulah a scroll which contained a number. It turned out to be the exact same number as someone else in the audience picked from a local phone book. He found someone's cell phone in a balloon. Blindfolded, he guessed the name anything held under his hand.
Me the Mindreader:
I told Cy: "I know you bought a raspberry lollipop while I was at the coffee shop."
Cy shocked and impressed (and with sticky red stuff all over his face): "How? How did you know?!"
Cy: "I was playing basketball today at school with this guy called Jasper...have you ever heard of that guy Jasper?"
Me: "Yes, I know Jasper."
Cy shocked and impressed: "How?"
Me: "Jasper's been in your class since you were two years old."
Every time I take Teddy - our fluffy Maltese 4lb puppy - for a walk, he morphs into wild thang barking crazily at every big dog that passes our way. I feel kind of sorry for Teddy; he has the heart of a lion and the body of a bunny.
Finally, finally, all the kids were back at school this week.
|Off to school|
|Baby Harley, 15 years ago in Kensington Park, London|
And Harley turned 15. How did that happen? How did we get through those years? Magic - and not. All those hours and hours at the park - both London and here - pushing him on the swings, crouching at the bottom of the slide, toe-to-tiny toe in the sandbox, holding him back when he wanted to swim with the "big duckssss." Our t-shirts were always smudged with his tears and giggles and howls and gurgles. We longed for sleep like we used to long for banana cake with chocolate icing. Those back-bending years spent swooping and scooping and folding him against us, his skin smelling sweeter than a nectarine.
Now he's never around and when he is, he's loping over our heads or sleeping in till noon. And yet he's still the same. The very same little guy who crawled in with the swans.