auntbijou | Life with the Impossible Son (Reply)

And the award for Most Un-Enthusiastic Game of Tag goes to.......... AUNTIE!!!

Yes, my son was trying to play tag with me while I was doing dishes. He's starting to run a fever, and he was on the energetic side of the fever at that time. I managed to convince him to put on his Sponge Bob pajamas (the No-Pants Dance got real old, real quick), because I noticed that he was shivering, despite his insistence that "I'm FINE, I'm WARM, Mama, REALLY, I AM!!"

So there I was, doing dishes, soaking out pots, that sort of thing. It has to be done. I hate doing dishes, but if I don't, what will we eat on? Or with? Or drink out of? So anyway, I'm doing the dreaded dishes, wishing I could sit down, and here comes the Impossible Son, doing an exaggerated creeping up step, and he pokes my thigh, yelps, "YOU'RE IT!" and high-tails it for the living room. Then he peeks around the door at me. "Aren't you going to chase me?"

"No."

"But... why?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Because I'm doing dishes, and you're sick. Get back on the couch!"

He disappears. I pick up a pot and start scrubbing, wondering if I have enough Motrin to keep the kids' fevers down, or do I need to run to the store when the Husbandly One gets home. A finger pokes me in the thigh. "YOU"RE IT!!"

I sigh. "Yes. I am IT." I keep scrubbing.

"MOOOOOOM!! You're not DOING it right!"

"What? I'm not scrubbing the pot right?"

"NOOOO!!!! You're supposed to be CHASING ME!!"

I snort. "No. You're supposed to get back in the bed you made me make for you on the couch with Bear, and Hot Wheels, and Grrrr, and REST!!"

"But I wanna PLAY!!"

I look at his flushed little face. I know it won't be long, he's going to crash and not want to move so much as a pinky. "Little Man, you need to be resting now. Not playing. Really."

Droop. "Okay." Sad trudge back to the living room. I pick up a pitcher filled with the residue of Kool-Aid that someone let dry, and fill it to soak it out. Poke. "YOU"RE IT!!!"

I reach with a long arm and tap him on top of the head before he can get two steps away. "You're it."

"AWWWW!!" Poke. "You're it!"

I snag his shoulder. "You're it."

"MOOOOM!!!" Poke in the back of my knee, making it bend and hit the cabinet door, and I have to grab the sink to keep from falling. "YOU'RE it!"

On the way down, I grab him and dump him in my lap. "You're it, you sneaky little stinker. And now you're going to bed!"

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!" He wriggles and squirms and tries to get away, but I have him now. I get up, tuck him under my arm like a football and carry him into the living room, dumping him on the couch.

"Stay!" I say. I look at the Impertinent Daughter, who is absolutely miserable at this point. She manages a wave, and focuses back on "Narnia." (Miyazaki actually played out, surprise, surprise).

The Impossible Son pouts and crosses his arms on his chest, frowning at the tv, and I go back into the kitchen. When I peek back into the living room, they're both snoring.

Guess I'll be washing dishes tomorrow, too.