Writing Wrongs

October 18, 2005

So the other day, Andrew comes leaping at me, shirt off, arms in the air. “Mommy! Smell my armpit!”

I decline. So he sniffs for me. “I can’t smell anything. I don’t know. Do I need deodorant?”

What he needs is a shower. I tell him that he won’t need deodorant for a few more years and I’ll make sure to let him know when he does. Later, because armpit contemplation is not enough, he tells me, “Mommy, I think I ate my Band-Aid.”

Sunday, when I was determined to finished the scene I was working on (a little something I call Mark’s accidental erotic massage), we had lunch/brunch of potato pancakes. I ate quite a few, at an exception rate, apparently, since Bob felt the need to tell the kids:

What’s the why to your mommy’s heart? Is it money? No. Is it jewelry? No. Is it even love? No. It’s potato pancakes.

At this point, Kyra let out a long: “Nooooo!” When she’s sure she has our attention, she says, “Family.”

There you have it. Our very own “from the mouths of babes” moment. All we need is Hallmark and some sort of appropriate graphic. I’m thinking one that includes potato pancakes.

And armpits.

Charity Tahmaseb wrote at 12:15 p.m.