Arriving home at eight last night after a very relaxing swim, I was tromping about unloading soggy towels in the laundry room, mail on the dining table, dirty lunch Tupperware in the kitchen, swimsuit in the lavatory, art files and purse in the bedroom, and finally, coat in the closet. Big sigh of relief. I was officially done for the day.
"Mom, look what happened," I hear from upstairs as Steven begins his descent. "Huh?" Then he turns the corner and I gasp. He has a bright red, shiny stain the size of a dinner plate on the lap of his favorite jeans. It's all I can do to keep from grasping the string of pearls at the neck of my brocaded silk gown, perform a tragic aria, "O, God! My baby boy's been stabbed in the groin!," and go into a final swoon, falling onto the stage in an elegantly draped heap. The invisible chorus is ready to take up the strains of, "He is stabbed, he's stabbed, the groin, O, God!, The groin, the groin, he is stabbed! Her baby boy, he's stabbed, O, God! Her baby boy is OOOOOO, groin! He is, her baby boy, O, God! [he's gone, oh, yes, he's gone, his groin, O, God...]Her baby boy is stabbed in the GROIN!" (Dramatic lighting here).
"You ever use iron oxide to stain clay, Mom?" "Huh?," I whisper shakily. "You know, like rust? I spilled some. The art teacher said to wash these separately," he explains. The chorus fades away singing, "Well, duh. Well, duh...." very softly.
"Okay," I say with my wrist at my forehead. "You'll need to take them off and bring them down to the laundry room, BUT FIRST you need to take that trash bag to the dumpster." Dramatic sigh.
No comments:
Post a Comment