I imagine archaeologists to be a rugged lot. Thick-soled boots like the treads of earth-movers, caked in ancient and illuminating grime. Wide brims and handkerchiefs and mirrored sunglasses to guard against a bully-sun cracking its knuckles. Scrapes and bruises; dehydration and sunburns; fingertips raw, knees creaking, eyes gritty and red. And pockets. Lots of pockets. […]
I don’t need that language in my mind, or in my heart. I’d rather my son avoid it, too. Which is something of a moot point given that he’s three. But still.
We can’t get through one milestone without the kid having to learn something. We can’t keep asking Kelly’s folks to handle the burden. It’s just gauche.
You’d think a grown man would have better things to do than look for poorly-carved rubber stamps hidden in logs.