The Strange Discovery of Mr. Sumo, and a Wonderful Evening with Ms. So-and-So

We were walking along the street when we noticed him in the ditch. He was a bit unkempt, but hadn’t been there long. Someone clearly had just dumped him off, or maybe there was some sort of accident. He was foreign born, that was obvious by taking one glance at him.

“Can we take him home, mama?” The tot wanted to know. He’s kind of good looking in a freakish sort of way. I’ve grown fond of freakish looking things. I nodded.

Then we headed on down the street, the tot in the umbrella stroller repeating over and over, “Now? Now is it time?”

“Alright,” I sighed, “close enough.” I broke out into a jog, while the boy zoomed up next to me on his bike, newly primed to race home. The tot was making sounds of joy, because not only was Mr. Sumo coming with, but they were traveling together at top umbrella stroller speed.

We made it home. I flung the stainless steel pot onto the stove, still operating in top umbrella stroller speed. “Company is coming for dinner,” I called to the children, “Ms. So-and-so, and she’s bringing Little Boy So-and-So and Little Girl So-and-So and Little Baby So-and-So for you to play with!” There were grunts of approval that carried over from the living room.

Then Vicious Dog Chaos—the canine version of a doorbell. The beasts were quickly contained. The children quickly replaced the wild beast noise with wild children noise, until the sound faded into the distance of the backyard. And then just The Wonderful Ms. So-and-So and I.

Meat; check. Veggies; check. Beans and tomatoes; check and check. Various seasonings, and a heavy hand with that deep red spice; check, check, check. If you are American, you probably know what I started making.

Ms. So-and-So is wonderful. She is the sort of company you have when you want to enjoy having company without actually having to do anything. She’s the kind of company that you don’t make dinner in advance for, you just stand in the kitchen talking while you chop carrots, and the food turns out tasting strange because there was a little more talking than there was cooking. You then have to spend five minutes fixing it, scald your tongue on the hot taste-test because some tot was pulling at your pants leg, and then declare that it is what it is because you just burnt off your taste buds.

Ms. So-and-So is the sort of company that you invite to split with you a fancy soda. It was on clearance—too fancy maybe. Hibiscus something or another. Holding the bottle that looks more like it ought to have beer in it than a pretty pink liquid, you almost feel like one of the big kids. But it doesn’t, so you’re not.

A good host of good low maintenance company should, naturally, babysit Baby So-and-So, because mothers of babies really like to watch and not do. Strange how a span of ten years can change a person from thinking that babies are another species, to being that lady with the magic touch. Babies like me now, and I don’t get it. They smell confidence, I think. Babies are good to have in a house—they show where all the dirty things are when they try to put them in their mouths.

And then, before we know it, the evening is done. The children are in bed. And I get to sit on the couch eating a bowl of the boy’s leftover dinner, the remains of a half-eaten brownie, and a bit of warm fancy soda.

It might be a bit lonely here, if it weren’t for the wonderful company of our new friend, Mr. Sumo.