“I’m going to get some things from the grocery store,” L’s mother announced this morning.
“If you get another cake, I’m divorcing you,” I told her. (This seemed like a reasonable thing to joke about since threating violence over a cake seemed like too much to me.) “But don’t worry,” I added. “It’s not like I’ll move out or anything.”
“The funny thing is,” she chuckled, “my first thought was, ‘It’s going to be hard to pay for your insurance if you’re not my spouse . . .'”
Last night: Might as well finish off the last piece of that damn cake while it’s still good.
This morning after learning L’s Mother had picked up another cake: Why? Just . . . why?
This morning as I walked into the bathroom I noticed what looked at first glance to be a bug in the bathtub. However a second glance convinced me that it was probably just a small bath toy that had taken a tumble. It being early in the morning, I honestly didn’t care either way, but I made a mental note to deal with it, whatever it was, after I had woken up.
Cue my son intercepting me as I walked out of the bathroom to inform me, “There’s a bug in the tub.”
“Aha!” I thought. “He’s trying to prank me.” And sure enough, closer inspection proved that it was indeed a bath toy and not a bug.
Feeling proud of myself for seeing through his ruse, I scooped up the toy in my hand, walked into my son’s room, and proclaimed, “Here’s your ‘bug!'” while presenting it for his inspection.
Have I mentioned he doesn’t like bugs? Well . . . he doesn’t.
And he wasn’t trying to prank me either.
“So I know I’ve not been available much these past few days in particular,” I told my son earlier, “but I did remember to pick up some more cake for you.”
“Thanks,” he replied, “but I think I’m taking a break from cake for dessert for a while, so you can have it.”
An entire cake, up to me to eat all by myself, I found myself thinking. I have mixed feelings about this . . .
Friends and family, among other things, are there to love you, accept you as who you are, and to, when necessary, call you out on your B.S.
You can always tell your true friends and family because they’re the one’s trying not to enjoy that last one TOO much.
Walk with me on this one.
A while back our family got gifted with a set of assorted card games with custom decks for each game. One of those games was Old maid, and yesterday my son asked me if I wanted to play it.
Before answering I explained to him that the term “Old maid” was an outdated insult, but the game itself was harmless enough (beyond arguably needing a new name), so I said yes. The custom deck had matching fruit and vegetable cards, and the “old maid” card actually looked more like a young farmer that I thought like L’s Mother in overalls. (She agreed with this, by the way.) So it seemed like a good idea at that moment in time to suggest that we rename the game in our house after L’s mother.
Until I realized that by the rules of the game, whoever ended up with her card was the loser . . .
She’s [age redacted]? It’s time for her to start gearing up!
– L., age 10, making a joke upon hearing his grandmother’s age
Particularly after yesterday’s post, lest you think that L’s Mother can’t hold her own, right after I walked out the room she gave the most theatrical heartbreaking sniffle I have ever heard.
“That was really good!” I told her as I walked back into the room.
“I know, right?” she agreed. “Allergy season deserves a lot of the credit though.”
“Now this won’t be of any interest to you whatsoever . . .” L’s Mother foolishly used as a lead-in with me early this morning.
So of course I interrupted her with, “You’re right,” and walked out of the room.
Yesterday while I was replacing the batteries in one of my son’s toys, he grinned at me and with a knowing chuckle asked, “Hey, Dad. Remember when I said those looked like Double A holes to me, and do you remember the Ash hat Pikachu?”
