July 31, 2008
Every morning, when James wakes up, he likes to stand at the top of the stairs and scream some sort of news in my general direction.
Usually it's something like, "MOM! I EM AWAKE! ARE YOU SO HAPPY?!" or "I EM DONE SWEEPING FOR DA NIGHT. ARE YOU SO HAPPY?"
And I think to myself, "Am I happy? Well that goes without saying--because I've been sitting here, just hoping that someone would come into my kitchen and stick their entire fist into my bowl of Special K...and now my wish comes true!"
But really I say, "Of course I'm happy! Come on downstairs, buddy!"
This morning, however, our conversation was completely new and different. James stood at the top of the stairs and yelled, "MOM! MY ROOM ES NASTY!"
Let me stop and point out that when a person who regularly licks the soles of his shoes, takes one bath a week, and earns time-outs for touching the dog's rectum describes something as "nasty," you can very safely assume that you have a major issue on your hands.
"Why is your room nasty," I asked?
"PACUASE I POOPED AW ON DA BED, MOM! DER ES A WOT OF POOP ON DA BED!"
"That's okay, buddy," I calmly replied. "We'll wash it."
"BUT MOM! WE CANNOT FIT DA BED INTO DA WASHEN MACHINE!"
You know what? My three-year-old son was absolutely right--his twin size bed is far too large for the barrel of my Kenmore. Since I was no longer sure how to handle the problem, I tiptoed back into my own bedroom, shook my husband awake and said, "Hey babe...James is asking for you. He only wants you."