Blog

“Mom!  Everett ate the whipped cream out of the can again!” An irate Janna yells at me from the kitchen.  “There’s a bunch left in the can, but it won’t come out.  The nozzle isn’t working anymore.  This is the third can he’s ruined in the last two weeks.”

“Everett!” I holler down the hallway on my way to the laundry room.  But, of course, I get no response.  He’s most likely buried under a Switch controller.  I turn around and head for the twins’ room.  I discover that I was right.  He is lost in the land of Nintendo.

“Everett, come with me.  Get two bucks out of your piggy bank.  You are paying for the can of whipped cream you ruined with your saliva.”

Here comes the automatic denial.  I think children of a certain age are programmed with this feature.  You push a certain button, and up pops, “But I didn’t—”

“Did you eat whipped cream straight out of the can?”

“Yes, but—”

“Come on.”  I glance at all my boys and Noel.  “All of you, come with me,” I speak in my sternest voice as I eyeball them all.

Their eyes slide sideways and collide with each other.  Everyone looks worried.  I interrupt them.

“Come on.  Out to the kitchen!  All of you!”  I head for the door.

I march them out to the kitchen.  Once there, I turn to face them as I open the fridge and remove a can of whipped cream.  An unopened can.  

“It is not okay to drink whipped cream straight from the can,” I announce for the umpteenth time.  “Why not?”

“Because if you spit in it, your saliva destroys the cream,” Alastair explains.

“And then you won’t have any whipped cream,” adds Abs.

I nod my head.  “That’s right.  Now.  I think it’s time I taught you the proper way to eat whipped cream from a pressurized can.”  I turn the can upside down, hold it six inches above my head, and spray a stream of the luscious fluff into my mouth.  “Now,” I explain.  “It’s all in the technique.  If you hold it too close to your mouth, your saliva will touch the nozzle, and you can kiss all our whipped cream goodbye.  Hold it at least six inches from your mouth.”  I demonstrate again.

Then I make eye contact with each boy before questioning them.  “Who wants to go first?”  I hold the can up above Abner’s head.

His eyes grow wide as I suddenly have five eager volunteers.

“Open up,” I command Abs before spraying cream into his mouth.  Giggling, he swallows it as I fill his mouth to overflowing with the white fluff.

“Who’s next?” I ask.

Alastair exclaims, “Me!  Me!”  Then he opens his mouth wide.  I chuckle as I squirt a long stream of cream into his mouth.

I approach Everett next.  “Keep your mouth away from the nozzle, please.” 

He receives his mouthful before I move on to Noel.  Finally, I come to stand in front of Kookie.  Who is still taller than me.  I just look at him.

“I want some too, Mom,” he grins at me, revealing those gorgeous, white teeth of his. 

I hand him the can.  “I know you’re a professional.  Why don’t you demonstrate for the boys how it’s done?”

“What?  I’m supposed to be able to follow an act like yours?  Your technique was just perfect, Mom,” a brilliant flash of those teeth assaults my senses again.

“I know I made it hard on you, but I believe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Kookie chuckles before raising the can above his head and upending it to shoot a wide swath of sweet fluff into his mouth.  With perfect technique.  Yep.  My eldest son is following in my footsteps.

And he definitely is the apple of my eye.

One of them, anyway.

––                                                                                                                                           

“Yeah, Janna,” Emmie responds snidely to some remark my daughter made.

Janna, who is holding a huge coffee mug full of ice water, reaches over and wipes her frigid and soggy hand along Emmie’s forearm.  Just to irk her.

The most comical expression of horror crosses Emmie’s face. 

“What’s wrong?” I query.

“She touched me with her wet hand!” she cries out in mock disgust.  Then Emmie wipes her hand along her now-wet arm before wiping her cold fingers along Janna’s forearm, giggling the whole time.

Janna bursts out laughing.

So much for Emmie getting retribution.

These two.  They crack me up.

––

“Abs?  What are you doing?”

I look down at my youngest child.  His nose is pinched shut with a binder clip.  This child of mine can always make me laugh, even when he is getting into trouble.  He has an infectious joy.  And an amazing grin.

“Alastair just threw out some stinky, rotting potatoes.  The whole kitchen stinks!”

I burst out laughing in a ripple of giggles that leaves me breathless.

Abs grins at me.  “What, Mommy?  It’s really stinky!”

“I’m sure it is, sweetheart.  You’re just so cute.”  I reach out and push on the tip of his nose with my index finger.

He beams at me.

“How can we have any rotten, stinky potatoes?” I query.  “I just bought a new bag.”

“They were in that plastic box on the bottom.  They’ve been there for months.”

“How come I didn’t smell them earlier?”

“Alastair just opened the box.  He threw them out the back door, but it didn’t help.  The kitchen still stinks.”

I stare down at his pinched, little nose.  “Doesn’t your nose hurt with that binder clip on it?”

He shakes his head.  “The smell was much worse.”

I grin at him.  “All right.  I’ll see what I can do about the stench in the kitchen.  Abs?”

“What, Mommy?”

“Never stop being adorable, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.  Mommy?”

“What, darling?”

“Never stop being adorable, okay?”

I chuckle.  Here’s proof positive.  Abs will never stop being cute.  It’s in his genes.  Which, I suppose, means I’ll always be adorable too.

––

Later that evening, I wander out to the kitchen to help Janna clean up after dinner.  She’s standing at the sink staring down at her phone.  Emmie is peering over her shoulder to look at her phone screen.

“What color are you going to get?”

“Dark white,” Janna asserts.

“Dark white?” her daddy asks, attracted to this absurd conversation.  “What color is dark white?”

“Gray,” she replies.

“Nuh-uh,” I interject.  “Gray is light black.”

My husband chortles, “Light black?”

He can see where Janna came up with dark white, apparently.  He just shakes his head at me before asking, “What’s for dessert?”

“What isn’t for dessert?” I reply.  “We still have some Christmas cookies left, don’t we?”

“Nope,” my daughter is quick to respond.  “We finished those off this afternoon.”

“Buckeyes?’’

My husband shakes his head.  “Everett just ate the last one.”

“Gingerbread?”

“You ate the last three last night, remember?” Janna prompts me.

“Oh, yeah.  I forgot.”  I look up at my husband.  “You don’t really need dessert, do you?”

“Here, Dad,” Kookie enters the kitchen.  “I saved you a piece of pie.”  He reaches down into a cupboard and pulls out a pie plate with one slice of Dutch apple still nestled into it.

I laugh.  “You saved that for your dad?  What a good kid you are!”

Kookie eyes me sheepishly.  “Well, actually, I saved it for me.  But then I heard Dad looking for something sweet….”

“You’re still a good kid, Kookie.”

He beams at me as his father receives his bounty and heads for the living room to devour the last of Everett’s favorite pie.

A few moments later, Everett wanders into the living room to discover the remains of that pie.  He begins to sing a gratingly irritating song in a screechy voice.  Most likely, just to annoy the rest of us.  Or to express his angst at the loss of his favorite dessert.

As he begins caterwauling again, I say, “Everett, can you please take your private concert downstairs?”

He shoots me a disappointed look before buttoning his lips and plopping down onto the couch next to his daddy.

The sound of a pure, clear voice singing The Truth Untold reaches my ears later that night.  Janna is singing in the shower.  Jungkook had his golden closet, and Janna has her water closet.   

I smile to myself.  I really love my family.  Just the way it is.

A wonderful husband.

An adorable set of bitty twins.

A smart and affectionate middle son.

A brilliant and kind daughter.

And, of course, Kookie.  A beautiful boy full of humility, talent, and sweetness.  And now…my eldest son.

––

Life is just imperfectly perfect, as Janna would say.  I’m just hoping that this isn’t all a dream.  If it is, I have no wish to ever wake up.