Beautiful spring day in Ohio. Laundry room in the basement. Hanging clothes on the inside line from the dryer so they won’t be a wrinkled mess. My son, as usual, hungry for a snack. How does he always know when I don’t want to be interrupted in the middle of a task? Demanding a snack. Right now. A snack. “Did you hear me, Mommy?”
Son, who skipped Terrible Twos, now four. Fearsome Four. Bigger, stronger, and much smarter than a Terrible Two.
Current popular television shows: Welcome Back, Kotter and Happy Days. Current heroes: Vinnie Barbarino and The Fonz. Maybe a mistake to let him watch those programs?
Recently tried, “Up your nose with a rubber hose.” Discarded that one a few weeks ago when it didn’t get a rise out of either of us.
Today, hot and tired from playing in the backyard. Irritated and growing more so. Can’t see why I don’t stop what I’m doing to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Right now. Explanation involving clothing and wrinkles and looking nice doesn’t get through that sudden, urgent need for a sandwich. Right now.
Fearsome Four, cute little pipsqueak, less than half my height and a fraction of my weight, halfway down the basement stairs. Lower lip sticking out in a perfect classic pout.
Stopping my task for a moment. “Birdie will sit on your lip,” said with a softening smile in a singsong voice.
Big, luscious brown eyes narrowed. Fierce look on his chubby, adorable baby face.
In his darling little-boy voice, quoting The Fonz: “Aayy. If you don’t make me a sammitch right now, I’m gonna flatten out your body.”
I lost it. I laughed so hard I doubled over in tears. Soon, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.