Thursday, July 15, 2010
The other day, faced with the prospect of a child whose reading abilities are rapidly declining due to our ridiculous agrarian-based summer break, I took the boys to the library.
As we pulled into the parking lot, Proximo starting asking about the alligator. The last time we were at the library was for a children’s party. I tried to remember if there had been some sort of alligator game or sculpture. “Honey, they don’t have an alligator this time; there’s no party today, just lots of books!”
“I want to get on the alligator,” Proximo insisted.
I nodded happily hoping to distract him, and ushered them into the children’s books. We picked out several early readers, a picture book, and made our way to checkout. Proximo kept talking about the alligator. I kept chalking it up to three-year-old imagination. On our way out Proximo screamed, “ALLIGATOR I WANT TO RIDE ALLIGATOR!”
“Honey, I don’t know where the alligator is.”
“THERE,” he said, pointing to the elevator.
So we rode the alligator, and we liked it.
What we did not like was dinner. I made the Pioneer Woman’s mini-meatball sandwiches with a green salad. Sure to please all?
El Guille doesn’t “like meatballs.” We should have his paternity tested. He had a roll, a salad, and then complained about being hungry. I suggested he eat the meatballs in the marinara. He countered with a suggestion that he eat dessert. I clarified that I am not, nor have I ever been, a short-order cook and referred him back to the meatballs.
Proximo had a meltdown when his cheese melted on his sandwich. He voluntarily left the room, closing the door behind him, and returned when he’d composed himself. I took apart the sandwich and put its various components on the plate, where Proximo could choose to assemble a new one according to his liking. He tried to put a new slice of cheese on and it broke. So did his will to live. He threw away the broke cheese and got a new slice. It broke as well. Our personal Hindenburg. That cheese also was thrown away. New slice. Now, the meatballs have too much sauce. Def Con 7. Will I lick the sauce off for him?
In twenty-five years, remind me to tell the story of how he asked me to lick the sauce off the meatballs so he’d eat them, at his wedding.
Oh, and I did it, too.
(Name a short-order cook who'll do that for you.)