“Mom!” Luke shouted, running into the kitchen with a grin. “Look!”
He was completely nude as usual and had folded his (I’m wincing as I write) …well, manhood into a ball. The whole package. I don’t know how he accomplished that so don’t ask.
“It’s like a cocoon!” he grinned widely.
This summer has been interesting so far. Beside the “cocoon incident” we took a trip, all 4 of us, to Fairway (Do you have Fairway where you live? It’s the best supermarket ev-er. It’s worth moving closer to where I live so you can be closer to Fairway.)
Wait, you were expecting to hear about some exciting trip we took to some place fantastic? Like Disney World or Maine or Paris, even?
Some how, some way Madeleine fell in Fairway. In the cereal aisle. She was going commando in that ballgown of hers again and when she slipped I think her shoe must’ve gone between her butt cheeks because she was carrying on and holding her butt. Michael made that face he makes when he can’t take another ounce of kid bull-crap and steered the wagon away to the next aisle, Luke in tow.
Is that why they make parents in sets of two, for the most part? So one can run away with the grocery cart and ignore their screaming child, knowing well that the other parent wants nothing more than to not sit on the (filthy) floor to comfort and inspect the rectal area of a disgruntled 4-year old.
That’s not true, really. I felt terrible that she hurt her bum.
We all made it back to the car and I was feeling bold so I gave each of them one of those FAGE yogurts with the jam on the side. The next thing I knew, Madeleine was flinging yogurt, catapult-style, from her spoon and now it was on the ceiling, on Luke’s carseat and on the back of the driver’s seat. And on Luke, who really, really wasn’t happy about that.
I don’t know how or why I was calm but the whole thing wasn’t bothering me. It was bothering Michael. And he launched into his usual blather about how our kids misbehave.
“What are we supposed to do about this, Lindsay!” he said. He made yet another face, conveying that he was utterly frustrated and was hanging on my next sentence to cure our parenting woes of the moment.
“I’ll clean it. It’s not a big deal.”
When we got home Madeleine shouted for someone to get her out of her seat and Michael reached her first. Unfortunately.
“Oh my God! Madeleine! Lindsay, look at this! She has jam on her vagina!”
(FYI: I married a crazy person. Yes. Thank you. I am a saint.)
“Calm down, Michael. It’s only jam.”
“You’re dealing with it.”
“Is a vagina some kind of enigma to you?”
“I don’t know what goes on in there. You do it.”
(I thought the title implied that this was a post on making jam and not on the silly-sallyness of my family, so I’ve included a recipe for strawberry jam. Didn’t want you to be disappointed.)