Poke, Poke

I apologize for posting a day late. Yesterday was my husband’s birthday and I guess I focused so much of my attention on him that I forgot it was a Thursday.

I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Actually, the kind of attention I gave him, he may thank me for the neglect.

The other day, he and Younger wandered into the house after an afternoon on the farm. And almost immediately they were engaged in a wrestling match in my kitchen, while I tried to step around them between the counter and the stove.

“Hey, Mom,” Younger panted, attempting to thrust one finger successfully between my husband’s swinging arms. “You need to poke, Dad.”

I ignored him.

“No, Mom, hey, poke Dad,” he insisted, still struggling to thread his hand through my husband’s defenses. “I’m serious. You need to poke, Dad.”

“I know he’s ticklish, Younger. So is Elder.”

“No-oo-oo,” Younger drawled. “Not ticklish.” He connected successfully with his target, earning a groan and flinch from my husband. “Sore. From chopping wood all morning.” With a grin, he sauntered from the room. “You can think me for that piece of useful information later.”

So, yesterday, while I was trying to watch Mizzou, my alma mater, in the Citrus Bowl, my husband aggravated me and abused me and taunted me with his bring-it-on attitude until I jabbed one finger into his pectoral.

“Ahh,” he groaned then laughed then groaned again because laughing hurt worse than the poke.

And from the other room, Younger hollered, “You’re welcome, Mom.”

All day long — aggravation, abuse, and taunts ending in a jab and a groan and a hollered, “You’re welcome, Mom.”

So, yesterday was my husband’s birthday…

But I got the gift.


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