One more thing to be grateful for…

Sitting on the counter,

waiting for his dinner

to warm up.

 

Cookies here

still warm 

from the oven.

 

Eyes widen and

he jumps off the counter.

Within seconds,

one cookie is gone

another in his hand.

Can I eat all of them?

 

Yeah,

they’re yours.

Trying to hide

my happiness,

my relief,

my gratitude that

this

is where we are right now.

 

Can we have cookies

again tomorrow?

he questions.

No doubts.

No second thoughts.

 

Of course.

 

The Coronavirus Outbreak Is “Like A Nightmare” For People With Eating Disorders 

 

 

 

 

Have You Ever?

<fart sound>

“Was that you or her?”  I asked my son from the front seat.

“Her,” he said with a chuckle.  He’s constantly impressed and amused with his baby sister’s flatulence.

“Wow.”  It really is shocking the volume of the sounds that can come from such a tiny human.  It reminded me of Fridays dinner at my husbands grandparents.  “You know on Friday, I had her sitting on the table that everyone else was eating at and she tooted.  They all turned and looked at us…it was really loud.  I think they wondered which one of us it was.”

“Well, yeah.  It’s like when you fart on a yoga ball!  It like…echos,”  my son said with animation.  “It’s so loud!” he continued as my husband and I laugh and shake our heads.  “It’s true!  Have you ever farted on a yoga ball?!”

I want to shake my head at the things teenage boys find entertaining. But since drafting this slice, I’ve realized that I am writing this story…so what does that say about me….

The Papaya

“Did I tell you about the papaya?”  my son asked on the way home Sunday night.

I had only seen him for a little bit on Friday, so I hadn’t heard anything about school on Friday yet.  “No, I don’t think so.”

He took a bite of his granola bar and chewed.

I waited.

And waited.

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

He nodded as he chewed another bite of the granola bar.

I waited.

“The Papaya,”  he said and then paused.

I waited.

“Ok.  So, Friday during Lanugage Arts -”

“Wait!” I interrupted.  “Did you just say the title of your story?”

He nods and then continues telling me the story of “The Papaya.”  Yes, my son, the writer, apparently titles even his verbal stories.  It wasn’t actually titled “Papaya,”  it was another “p” word that is more of what you would expect from middle school boys.   He went on to tell me a story about middle school boys, a “papaya” drawing, and an unsuspecting teacher on the last day before spring break.  The more he tells me about middle school, the happier I am to be here in elementary school,  far away from “papayas” and middle school boys…

I’m not June Cleaver.

“Can you put the discs for this audio book back in the right pockets?  I want to return it after the movie,” I ask my son as I drive to the movie theater.

He grabs the case to do as I ask, but I can sense his disapproval without even looking at him.  I wait for him to complain. He just can’t except I’m never going to me the mom that always puts things back where they are supposed to go.  Our house will never be in order.  I am not June Cleaver, to his constant disappointment.

“Why don’t you just put them back in the right place as you go?” There it is.

“I’m driving when I listen to it.  It wouldn’t be safe.”

“You’re the one that wants to drive,” he retorts, not being serious, but needing to give a smart response.  “No one said you need to go to work.”

“You’re the one who wants food and shelter,” I respond.  Got him.  I think.  But, I should know better…

“I never said that.  I just want WiFi.”

Oh…life with a teenager…