Wow. What a past few days.
First, on Thursday, I handed out cute little bags of badges to my Brownies. Photos on the way, courtesy of Hubs, but trust me, they girls were so adorable. I loved their expressions and the pride they clearly felt for having earned those colorful patches.
Saturday, I took the kids summer-clothes and Easter-attire shopping. Unfortunately, before hitting the mall, I treated them to a Chinese buffet, their fave. The E-man chowed down on pineapple chicken, General Tso chicken, sesame chicken, garlic chicken and two versions of beef and broccoli.
And then my stuffed-to-the-gills little boy threw up at Old Navy.
He gave me fair warning. I just didn’t pay attention.
“Mommy, my tummy hurts,” he said several times.
And then — “I need to go to the bathroom.”
At that point, I led the kids back to the restrooms, but there was a wait.
As I chatted with a woman in line, Tootie grabbed my arm.
“Mama,” she whispered urgently. “The E-man’s throwing up.”
I looked down and, sure enough, my poor little boy had upchucked his lunch on the floor next to the changing rooms.
Apparently my son inherited my drunk-in-college talent for Not Puking On One’s Clothes so that One May Return to the Party.
The only casualty, it appeared, was Old Navy’s floor.
When two teenage clerks arrived to clean up, I took pity upon them. (You should have seen their expressions of horror.)
“I’ll get this,” I said. “Then you’ll just have to mop.”
“It’s OK,” the girl said, struggling not to gag.
“Yeah, we can handle it,” agreed the boy standing next to her.
“Trust me, guys, only a mother can clean up puke left behind by her child. It’s what we do.”
They didn’t protest.
The E-man, having cleaned out his digestive system, immediately rebounded and commenced hiding in clothing racks and tormenting his sister as she tried on clothes.
Oh. My. Hell.
I now know why my mother despaired each year when we went Easter-dress shopping.
As I oohed and ahhed over cute dresses, Tootie sniffed disdainfully.
“I don’t like stuff on my dresses,” she informed me.
“Stuff” apparently includes everything from polka dots to flowers to stripes to paisley to plaid to flowery.
I finally convinced her to get a hippie-looking skirt to wear with the turquoise tank she fell in love with.
“I just like plain colors, Mama. Not dresses with stuff on them.”
I sighed, looking back wistfully at the black-and-white patterned dress with the hot-pink bow.
My poor mother. Now I understand.
Each year, she pointed out adorable dresses and I insisted on picking out outfits by Santa Cruz or Esprit. (Remember them?) She like cute; I favored bohemian.
And now I must pay the price for having forced her to sacrifice her dreams of pink frilly dresses.
Thus ended Saturday.
Sunday morning, we attended a church service, then met Hubs (who had to work) for brunch at Capi’s. Yum. Spicy bloody Mary and a breakfast quesadilla. Heaven.
That night, the children played in the water hose. Unbeknownst to the Hubs and I, our little E-man left his tennis shoes outside.
As you’ll recall, it stormed Sunday night.
My poor little guy refused to wear house shoes or flip-flops, so, after watching him depart for school in sodden shoes, I headed to Target. After picking up a spare pair of tennis shoes, I headed over to the school and asked to have the E-man summoned to the office so that he could switch out footwear. He was mortified.
Am somewhat ashamed to admit that it is fun to embarrass one’s offspring.
But it was.
I am now officially That Mother. The one who coos over her wee boy-child in front of the office secretary.
The E-man shoved on his new shoes and fled the office without a backward glance.