...for a different kind of girl

silent surburban girl releasing her voice, not yet knowing what all she wants to say about her life and the things that make it spin. do you have to be 18 to be here? you'll know when i know.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

'run like hell and get the agony over with'

the older my oldest son gets, the more "mom deaf" he becomes. he rarely hears my requests the first time out. questions about his day often bear repeating. when i ask him to run upstairs and fetch me my slippers and a blanket like the trained monkey we bore him to be, it's like i've not spoken a word.

honestly, there are days i think his senses and his fine motor functions have seeped out in a pool of boy juice while he's lounging in front of the tv, glued to espn. he'll only run if it's down court or from a potential attacker (we've not tested that second theory, of course. it's just my hope). but today, my darling boy showed he still has the stamina to take a full on mad dash, prefontaine-style, when given the proper inspiration.

what's the inspiration? could it be the promise of only ice cream for every meal the rest of his life while under my roof? unlimited access to every star wars action figure ever released? a promise to only talk about basketball at every opportunity?


it's vomit.

sorry. should have warned you.

today, as the boys parked themselves at the kitchen counter for lunch, my youngest used that opportunity to express his distaste for his meal by throwing up. over everything.

ok, it wasn't really a testimonial to the quality of his lunch so much as it was his turn in the house to cop onto the flu bug we've all been fighting this weekend (btw flu? i get it. you're hardcore. you've kicked my ass. seriously. let's just agree to disagree and you can be on your way, k?). at the first retching sign (the telltale "open mouth, silent gag" should be the universal signal to immediately bail on the situation) my oldest leaped away from the counter as if he'd been hit in the ass by a bolt of lightening and dashed upstairs to find me, in the shower, and alert me, e.r. style, of the latest medical malady to hit our home.

(sidenote: i swear i didn't smile too much when i learned of this development and quickly deduced that by being in the shower, i was immune to having to help attend to the aftermath. but there were probably teeth showing. and for the first time ever, i followed those "wash, rinse, repeat" instructions on the shampoo bottle).

his dash was so rapid, according to my husband, that we should consider talking him out of his attempts to care for us in our old age as a basketball great and push him toward a future in track and field.

great idea, i thought, until it struck me how slowly said child actually moved when it was he who brought this malady into our home last week, who's actions prompted the detonation of a lysol cloud so widespread it's a miracle there are any survivors. oh no. he dallied. spreading the wealth of flu germs throughout the house while en route to the nearest bathroom.

the youngest boy's action today was perhaps his attempt to rebuke his older brother.

definitely 'repuke,' at any rate.

yeah, groan away. bad humor's all i've got at this point in my weakened condition.

besides, i'm watching for your universal "open mouth, silent gag" so i can run like hell upstairs and jump in the shower.


Blogger Desmond Jones said...

Prepare yourself, DKG. Somewhere in the pre-teen years, boys become utterly deaf to vocal frequencies in the adult-female-maternal range. It has not yet ceased to astound me how Molly can speak to our sons to no discernible effect, but one arched eybrow from the Dad-unit will kick things instantly into gear. I'm wondering if I'm doing something to inadvertently reinforce the message that 'what Mom says doesn't matter'; I don't think I am, but the behavior seems impervious to any and all remedial efforts.

And I don't recall acting like that when I was in my teens (I hear distant, rueful laughter in a distinctly maternal register. . . wonder what that's about?)

Monday, January 29, 2007 9:01:00 AM  
Blogger Desmond Jones said...

I started to say, "strap it on", instead of "prepare yourself", but I thought that would generate too many snickers. . .

Monday, January 29, 2007 9:03:00 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Puke can bring out the track star in any of us. Sorry to hear about the illness in your abode. I'll take strep over puke any day of the week.

Monday, January 29, 2007 9:56:00 AM  
Blogger Nanette said...

Sorry about the sickness....but, I love the fact that you stayed in the shower, score 2 for you!

Monday, January 29, 2007 12:38:00 PM  
Blogger Cat said...

I actually asked my son who is only 10 why he and his brother are different with their dad because for me it is even more confusing. They see him maybe once every 2 weeks. And I just couldn't help but ask my 10 year old. And he looked at me and hunched like only a 10 year old can. Because he is dad mom, you know it's different...

Sorry to hear about the sickness, I hate stomach bugs worse than anything on the planet. Yuck. I hope you feel better soon.

Monday, January 29, 2007 1:44:00 PM  
Blogger Ben said...

Sounds like serious drydock action is taking place over there. Get better you guys and back on your feet soon.

Monday, January 29, 2007 8:17:00 PM  
Blogger you da mom! said...

you're right...you should have warned us! (i was eating a meatball.)

Tuesday, January 30, 2007 6:46:00 PM  
Blogger FTN said...

Kids and vomit. Good times. So did pops clean it up? And if he was down there, why did your oldest son feel the need to sprint up to tell you?

Unless of course you are the standard vomit-cleaner-upper in the house. And I suppose you are. I'm sure it's just a natural gift that you have.

And isn't it fun that vomit stories make such entertaining blog fodder?

Wednesday, January 31, 2007 12:25:00 PM  

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