Braden is sick again and that means he’s coughing in that special way that toddlers have which makes you clench up and wait for the inevitable choking sound every.single.time. Over and over again, I listen to him gag and gasp and make the phlegmy struggling sounds for breath that keep my blood pressure just a little higher than it really ought to be.
Last night he couldn’t sleep, and was pulling out one excuse after another to climb from his bed and yell down the stairs to us. His pleas for us to turn the music on, then off again, to find his toy car, and to turn on the light were all mingled with whimpers and punctuated by cries and sometimes soft, tired moans. Every request was just code for, “I need you, please come be with me, I’m feeling poorly and I just can’t be alone tonight.” Mommy is the ultimate translator – all those words and words and words, but a Mommy can see right through them. They pour off either side of the real request like oil parting and running this way and that on the surface of turbulent water.
But this night it was not just Mommy to the rescue. Often Mommy has to be the one who answers the call, who throws her hair over her shoulder and dashes off, valiantly. Mommy is so often the one who is here, so Mommy plays the heroine. But sometimes I get to fold my cape up for a beat. I write my story, I speak from my point of view. But he cuts through my view, too.
He listened to the translation of messages Mommy could hear floating down the stairs. When Mommy came down after a visit with the little sleep fighter, he heard all the things she said about little boys who are terribly unable to fall asleep because ohhh, they are just in need of togetherness and tender closeness. Mommy, who was distraught because of deadlines and projects. Mommy, who felt torn between work commitments and life priorities.
Daddy saw the worry and frustration on her tired face, and even though he had already done the bath routine and the bedtime routine, he smiled kindly, then set his face and stood up. He dashed off to go sit with the unwitting mini-villian upstairs, who was really just a little boy making too much noise for his tiny, tired body, until he could be tricked (loved) into falling comfortably asleep. He went in search of hugs and cuddles that would be stronger and more fierce than coughs and sneezes.
He answered the needs of the boy and the needs of the Mommy, all in a single bound.
I briefly saw his brightly colored cape flap at the corner of the stairwell right before he disappeared from view and I continued to tap at the keys, only momentarily wondering who that masked man was.
Have you ever been going about your business as usual, not hungry at all, and all of a sudden you want to eat everything within reach? Like, your appetite doubles times infinity plus seventy-eleven, in the blink of an eye?
Or, you want greek olives, peanut butter, apples, and tuna fish all at the same time? Along with your tropical punch flavored juice?
Yeah. That was me earlier this evening, and I have absolutely no reason why. And before your brain cells start rubbing up against each other all excitedly and “squeeing” as they trip over themselves, anxious to stimulate you hurriedly to suggest that I am pregnant, that’s gonna be a big N-O, Roger.
I can’t stop myself from interjecting here to say that every.single.time I see/hear/think the name “Roger” nowadays, I instantly hear an asian man’s voice saying, “Sorry, Rogah, you tigah now.”
And it makes me happy. Every time. Why is that so funny to me? Anyway…
See, certain things have to happen to make a baby. For a baby to get inside of a Mommy’s tummy, a Mommy and a Daddy have to love each other very much and then get really close to each other, and the Daddy has to hug the Mommy and then… Ok, you know what? This is going nowhere.
Ya’ll KNOW how babies are made. If you don’t, you are either too young to be reading this blog (I AM SO GOING TO TELL YOUR PARENTS! YOU BETTER GO BACK TO NICKELODEON.COM RIGHT THIS MINUTE.) or you are not very bright, and in that case, perhaps it is for the best that you do not understand the whole process. The rest of you are probably visualizing dirty bits and such now.
(Haha, I made you all think about doing it. Well, except for those of you who were already thinking about it anyway. Pervs. You know who you are. I see you over there, stop trying to hide and avert your eyes. Oh, I also see you, you who are making really, direct, uncomfortable eye contact with me and twitching a little. You are freaking me out. Stop that.)
Uh… so, what was I saying again? Oh yeah. I’m definitely NOT pregnant. I mean, John was on the west coast of the US while I was ovulating, and while he is.. uh… not lacking in the manly parts department by any stretch of the imagination, he isn’t THAT gifted.
And really, if there’s any wenis out there that can reach from California to Tennessee? I AM SCARED. Keep that thing away from me. Also, inform the owner of said Giganto Wenis that he could make a FORTUNE in endorsement ads for all those creepy companies that send me emails claiming that their product will enable me to “knock down walls with your penis!” and “tear her apart with your rod!”
For the record, knocking down walls with my penis would be really cool, tearing someone apart, not so much. Maybe work on that ad campaign a little. Possibly only send it out to violent rapist types. And people who ACTUALLY HAVE PENISES.
Also, I do routinely joke that I actually have a penis (it’s funny, I don’t care what you say)… and you know what? Both my penis and I are pretty offended that I’m getting those emails at all. How insulting!
I wonder if John gets emails for products that will enable him to crush a man’s head to a pulp with his cleavage?
It’s hard to believe I started this post by talking about my weird cravings considering where it has lead.
Maybe that’s what happens when you eat dried cherries and pork sausage together. Hm.