My son horked 7 times last Friday.
Once was just after he’d drunk a juice box that I’d given him to keep him hydrated. The entire bathroom smelled like strawberry kiwi the rest of the afternoon.
If I wasn’t such a fatass, I might not have found the smell so pleasant. As it was, I was thanking my lucky stars that I hadn’t fed the little pukester Dr. Pepper—I fear that if he’d puked up that scent, I may have set up camp in the door frame of the bathroom for the rest of the day and sniffed.
Anyhoo, the whole experience reminded me of something I wrote last year but never had a chance to post. It’s a little story I like to call “Drizzle”:
Last week, as I was walking to my computer to type up this post, I heard my 4-year-old son’s poor little sick voice pipe up. “Mom, could I get some graham crackers lightly drizzled with honey in a sweet gingerbread man shape?”
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned slowly to narrow my eyes in an evil look toward the hubs—because I knew this had to be his fault. I didn’t have to say what I was thinking aloud, because the hubs and I have been together for a good 11 years, and he can read my facial expressions. This one clearly said, What the eff is this child talking about, Princess?
The hubs had the decency to look sheepish. He’d been playing sick for a good three days now, and lines like “graham crackers lightly drizzled with honey in a sweet gingerbread man shape” had, unfortunately, escaped from his faker mouth on a regular basis.
When it was the hubs, I ignored. But since it was my preschooler, who actually was sick, I went and retrieved the honey and graham crackers and got to work. I’m not artistic, so I didn’t even try to make a gingerbread man. What I was able to do was honey-draw some pretty good hearts.
“Thanks, Mom,” my preschooler said to me as I bent to hand him his treats. Before I could escape to my computer, I saw the hubs shooting me the most pathetic look I’d ever seen from his end of the couch. I sighed.
“You want some honey graham crackers, too, don’t you?”
“Yes,” came his weak, whispered reply.
I knew better than to come back without hearts on the hubs’s crackers. Lord knows I’d have heard about it for decades. So I used my skillz to fashion fat, lovey-dovey hearts on his graham crackers, too, and went to his side of the couch to flop the plate onto his lap.
For a moment, the hubs sat there, gazing forlornly at the graham crackers. I almost walked away, but I could tell that something profound was coming, or at least something that I could profoundly make fun of later. My patience paid off.
“Could you drizzle a little more honey on there?” he asked.
“Don’t ever say the word drizzle again. Don’t. It’s banned from this pansy-ass house forever,” was my answer.
“Okay, maybe just…I don’t know, maybe just fill in the hearts?”
My widened eyes stopped him…momentarily. And although I recognized it as a moment to flee, my body must have been too astonished at his question to move. He took that as an opportunity to add quietly, “Could you at least write the day we met in the hearts?”
Holy shit, I married Taylor Swift.
This time, I actually did turn to stomp off, but my sweet, honey-gingerbread-loving preschooler stopped me by tugging on my shirt hem and pulling me down to the couch so that I was eye level with him.
“You’re lovely, Mom,” he said—and although that was almost as pansy-ass as “graham crackers lightly drizzled with honey in a sweet gingerbread man shape,” it melted my heart.
Which means I’m probably a damned pansy-ass, too.
I kissed my adorable kiddo on the cheek, then went to smack another on his other cheek. He promptly stopped me with a flip of his hand to my face. “But don’t kiss me again, Mom, because you smell like hash browns.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “That’s because I eat like a real man—hash browns and imitation scrambled eggs topped with a greasy sausage link and some shredded cheese.” And by the way—the imitation scrambled eggs weren’t used because they were healthier. They were just easier. Fifty seconds in the microwave and BAM!, you’ve got yourself fluffy, buttery scrambled eggs. So suck it.
I moved my chin toward the light so I could show my boy my whiskers, which have really started to come into their own as I’ve hit my mid-30’s. “I can teach you how to shave when the time comes, too. Here, have a rub on these, kiddo. They aren’t like your dad’s peach fuzz. These are coarse, black suckers.”
“Ewwwwwwwwwww!” my boy screamed, forgetting his illness and jumping off of the couch to run into his bedroom.
In the few minutes that he was gone, the hubs took advantage of my attention to ask a very serious question:
“Is the word drizzle actually banned from the house?”
“I mean,” he said, losing his resolve a bit and clearing his throat, “what if it’s actually drizzling…like lightly raining outside?”
“Is that a real question you just asked me?”
I almost whipped out the divorce papers I’d had drawn up for any scenario like this one (or for my favorite imaginary scenario, where he tells me he’s leaving and taking the kids every other weekend…helloooooo, barhopping skank of my past having her time in the sun again!!!!), but then I got ahold of myself. Without the hubs as a constant source, what the hell would I have to write about? I’d have to make my mom and dad move in, and holy shit—no.
And besides, misery loves company. I’m not letting that asshole go and be all happy without me.
The hubs fiddled with an imaginary spot on the couch. “Like, say there’s a light rain outside. How would I announce that to people?”
“You’d say it’s raining,” I said, finally preparing to make my exit down the hall. Before I got to my computer, though, I stopped, another thought popping up. I turned back toward the hubs. “And throw a few gang signs up while you’re saying it, Nancy.”
Needless to say, after the verbal abuse he endured, I felt bad and made the hubs some graham crackers with the day we met—a day I cannot believe he’s not trying to forget by now—lightly drizzled inside of some oversized hearts.
And yes, I just used the word drizzle. For eff’s sake, you try coming up with a word that conveys the same meaning when talking about graham crackers and honey. I sat here watching the blinking cursor on my computer screen for five minutes before conceding defeat.
Of COURSE I took a picture of some of my drizzles for this blog...had you any doubt?