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fluff – Oh Honestly, Erin
Mar 042008
 

There are few things my child could do to make me want to disown him. I was willing to turn the other cheek when he flung a forkful of noodles ala ketchup at me in protest. That’s one of my favorite meals, my signature dish. Nothing beats a bowlful of al dente egg noodles drenched in a sauce of congealed and lukewarm ketchup.

It took some time, I won’t lie, but I healed. I moved on. I continue to enjoy ketchup’d noodles alone.

I didn’t think he would find a way to hurt  me more than he did that day. Until this morning. I slaved over slathering the perfect marriage of peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff onto two slices of bread. I painstakingly cut the sandwich into tiny, bite-sized cubes, perfect for popping while enjoying an A.M. viewing of "Blue’s Clues."

I set the plate down in front of him. He grunted. I pushed it closer and he gave it some consideration. Then he grunted again and pushed the plate back at me. I tried to sneak a tiny morsel past his lips, in between chews of Goldfish. He crinkled his nose and his lips transformed into an iron barrier against unwanted edibles.

My asshole son doesn’t like Fluffernutters. I’ve been stabbed in the heart. Stabbed with a forkful of Fluffernutter hateration. How could he betray me like this? I’m running out of meal options for him, things that I’m capable of preparing and/or assembling, and if he keeps turning his nose up at my creations he’s going to be subsisting on crackers and Pringles every day until Henry comes home.

Maybe I can eventually get over this latest rejection. But if he doesn’t learn how to dance like the Jabbawockeez, I’m returning him to the hospital. Maybe I can exchange him for Lasik or get a voucher for an organ transplant. Or maybe they can just give me an organ if I’m in no immediate need of transplantation, to fashionably display outside of my body. "What? Is it my kidney brooch you’re admiring?"

 

Jan 242008
 

choochcar.jpg The eye-watering viewings of "Cars" have quietly dwindled down, being replaced by less frequent demands of "Blue’s Clues." I’m happy for this. He still plays with his cars though, which I support because it’s cute to watch him ram and crash them into Marcy’s fluff. However, the past few days he’s insisted on toting around a can of "Cars"-edition Campbell’s soup. Today he even held it out to us very urgently when we were about to leave the house, so Henry had to unzip Chooch’s backpack and let him plop it in. I mean, whatever makes him happy, but I’d prefer he’d stop playing with canned goods because those hurt much worse than plastic cars when chucked at your head. Also, he had a check-up yesterday and is now nearly three feet, placing him in the 95% percentile. Underneath his weight, the nurse wrote "uncooperative," which makes me laugh. He fucking hates that scale. Life can never be dull with Chooch in it.