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Small is quickly becoming a germaphobe. I can’t pinpoint the origin of his latest obsession but I know for sure that it isn’t me – I believe in the three five thirty second rule, will eat off someone else’s plate with his/her utensil, and have been known to “clean up” the kids’ creemees (Who can stand the drips?).
Just for the record: I won’t eat off just anyone’s plate so no need to fret that I am becoming a freegan.
Anyway, for weeks now, Henry has refused to drink from any water bottle he suspects has been contaminated with someone’s spit. The family is not allowed to take “bites” of anything Henry has on his plate and he will not eat anything that has been served to someone else. Until today, I was the sole person exempt from this rule.
As of 1:32 p.m., eastern standard time, I was deemed unclean like everyone else.
It happened like this:
“Mommy, I wan’ a drink.”
I handed him my water glass. “Here you go, buddy,” I said.
He peered into it skeptically. “Doeth it have your germth in it?”
“Umm,” I hedged. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“But it hath your germth.”
“It’s fine, Henry. You’re thirsty, aren’t you?”
“Why are your germth fine?
“Because you’re my son. You came out of me.”
The explanation just slipped out. I don’t know what I was thinking.
“What??”
“Well, you know that when you were a baby you were in Mommy’s tummy. And then…you were born.”
We looked at one another.
“I want another glath.”
I got him one.
I know when to say when.
Today was one of those gorgeous Spring days in Vermont – the sun shone brightly, puffy cotton balls floated in the blue sky, fields were awash in shades of green and dotted with yellow.
And there I was, in my minivan, totally oblivious to the beauty around me wrapped as I was in angst. I was considering the meaning of my life and was wrestling with the question: If someone offers you the moon, shouldn’t you take it?
For someone recently did just that…and I turned it down.
It’s a flaw of mine to skew glass half-empty. Instead of marveling over the magnificence of the moon, I worried about how it would fit into my life, what toxic substances it might introduce into my atmosphere, whether I was ready to shoulder the burden of its care and maintenance.
Yes, I am purposefully being cagey and no, I won’t go into the specifics. While it’s true, in creating this blog, I voluntarily put details of my life in a public domain; it’s untrue that I eschew privacy entirely. Maybe the best part of having a blog is that as its creator, one gets to pick and choose which anecdotes to include and which to stuff in the deeper recesses of the family’s toy box. But I digress. Back to the minivan.
At the stop light, I continued the fruitless pursuit of deciding whether to regret a decision I had already made. I was in a sightless, soundless, self-absorbed zone. Although the passenger side window was open to let a certain red dog stick his nose out, I was barely aware of it until another car pulled alongside me. Their music, without any sound barriers, was at blasting volume. Paco and I looked over.
This is what we saw: Two big guys (imagine Jake and Elwood without the hats and jackets), in an electric blue Dodge Charger, staring straight ahead, singing and punching their fists in time to the beat.
This is what we heard: Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance.
This is what we did: Laugh until I snorted.
At some point during the ten seconds before the light turned green, my mood shifted. I remembered. Life is meant to be enjoyed.
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