Tuesday, November 15, 2011
In Which All Is Right With The World
I suck at being part of a group.
Sometimes I disappear.
In my interweb lurkings, I popped in on Write On The Edge (Formerly The Red Dress Club) and the Memoir prompt happened to be something that I'd planned on writing anyway.
Because I'm in a place where I need to keep these moments close. The ones where everything is ok.
The assignment this week is Pivotal Conversations.
Not sure how pivotal this was. Well. It sure was for the stink bug.
Asterisks instead of quotations as none of this conversation was spoken.
It doesn't happen often, but I love when Owen needs me after he's gone to bed. After he's taken off his ears.
I get to tiptoe into his realm, into his silent bubble.
Last week, I got such an opportunity, and was in his doorway seconds after hearing his call.
*What wrong? What happen?*
His right pointer aimed over his bed, where the ceiling meets the wall. His left pointer, in his mouth being anxiously gnawed upon.
Dramatic gasp. Mouth agape. Hands on cheeks.
He mimics me perfectly.
*What name bug?*
*Think maybe s-t-i-n-k bug. Gross* Nose scrunched. Tongue protruding. Vomit pretending.
*Like fart! Gross. Daddy butt. Same.*
*Need bug dead.*
*Right.* Eyes wide. Smiling. *Idea. Have. Come. Quiet.*
He follows me giggling to the bathroom where I gather up a generous wad of toilet paper.
*This? Get bug. Squish!*
Under the sink, I find plastic wrap from a four-pack of toilet paper. I fashion it into a bag and hand it to him explaining;
*You need help me. Important job you have. Mommy get bug with this. You hold bag. Mommy put bug in. You close bag. Quick! Understand?*
Giddy nodding of head.
With exaggerated stealth, in three big steps, we're back in his room.
Nodding, hand over mouth suppressing snickers.
*Scared!* Feigning fear I climb ever so slowly onto his bed, looking back every few seconds at his smiling face, seeking moral support for my most dangerous mission.
*Do! Do! Do! Can!! Go!!*
I'm almost within reach of the bug when its hideous stank sends me crashing down onto the mattress, coughing and gagging;
*P-U! Bug fart on me!*
He finds my performance hilarious. Because it is.
A couple more aborted attempts for dramatic effect and the offensive beast is bested, wrapped up in the wad and thrust into the makeshift bag with truimphant flourish.
*Finish! Now. Put where?*
Holding the bag as far away from his body as he can manage, he marches his trophy back to the bathroom, tosses it in the trash can and slams down the lid.
With a satisfied sigh and hands proudly on hips he gives me my leave;
*Good work. Good night.*
And all is right with the world.