Recently, we were on our way to school, hurrying because we had an appointment with Jackson’s teachers for his parent-teacher conference. (Yes, my son, who is not even four, has parent-teacher conferences.) It had been an incredibly full weekend, mainly driven by my decision to outfit the family with biking equipment so that we could ride together and a determination to make it to the last Braves’ home game of the season.
In our freshly-cleaned home (my husband had his preaching class over to watch the documentary on Dietrich Bonhoeffer the night before; this has been an old trick of ours—when the house gets too dirty, invite folks over! Our aversion to shame makes us clean every time ...), I made a pot of oatmeal, dressed the boys in freshly-cleaned clothes, and filled their freshly-cleaned sippy cups. We’re not exactly a well-oiled machine (as anyone who has ever had a morning appointment with me knows), but we were doing alright, eeking out the door right on time.
On the way to school, we passed Egleston Children’s Hospital. This is the inspiration for lots of morning drive dialogue because of Jackson’s most recent experience there getting one stitch in his palm. It usually involves the youngest boy in the backseat suggesting that he needs to go to the hospital to get a cut (i.e., have surgery). By the time we’ve passed the next stoplight, conversation has progressed to cranes, or scooters, or the Dan Zanes song they’d like to hear for the 239,468,569,875th time in a row. (In case you’re wondering, the top-played song on my iPod is “Tennessee Wig Walk.”)
But yesterday, we passed the hospital, and two-year-old Cooper commented: “I don’t feel good.”
“Oh, Bean, you’re okay.” I passed over his comment as if it was a beige stripe on a tan wall.
Cooper responded: “Blgggggggggggggh.”
Mama: “Take your hands out of your mouth, Cooper. It will make you gag.”
Cooper: BLGGGGGGGH!
Matt, doting father that he is, just happened to be rubbing Coop’s chest when we saw the oatmeal again. This always, always, always happens to Matt. Always. I think it’s God’s way of rewarding me for birthing the boys without medication. (What’s that? You didn’t know I’m a natural birthing machine? Oh! Well. Now you do. I’m never going to let anyone forget this. It’s great currency when I’m feeling tired or lazy or ... if it’s Monday, or something.
