Stop the Suffering

Younger does not enjoy mornings. Ever, really. But particularly on school days. Oh, most particularly on school days.

Every week morning, I announce, “Younger, time to go.”

And he will remain on the sofa, hidden beneath piles of bed covers, hoping I have forgotten the actual existence of a younger son.

“Younger,” I repeat.

“The blankets and I have formed a bond. I cannot break their trust by leaving them now.”

I shake my head at the muffled voice. “Time to go.”

When I have finally prodded him to the truck, he slumps in the seat, his eyes closed, ignoring the existence of sunshine, mothers, and schoolhouses.

So, the other day, allowing him his fifteen minutes of stubborn oblivion, I listened idly to the music spilling from the radio. Then one of the deejays made the announcement that soda sales had dropped to their lowest in thirty years.

“Mom.” My comatose son popped upright, animation lighting his eyes. “The soda companies are in trouble. I can save them.” He thrust his palms outward in a gesture of earnestness. “Sales are down. I can stop the suffering.”

Yeah, well . . .

Who’s going to stop mine?

Little M&M’s

Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2001 when Elder was not quite five and Younger not quite two…

Monday night, Uncle Farmer Boy had everyone over to his house for watermelon. But, unfortunately, my husband, since he was involved in shingling the roof of our garage, could not attend the gathering. So, as the boys and I were leaving, Uncle Farmer Boy told the boys to grab a Pepsi for their dad. After an embarrassing length of time, the boys and I finally managed to wrestle the cooler open, both Elder and Younger grabbing a cold soda.

Elder, I believe, truly intended to give his soda to his dad. Younger, however, considers possession nine-tenths of the law.

Unfortunately, as we started to cross the cattle guard to our car, Elder decided he needed both hands to maneuver the broken expanse, and, before I could divine his intent, he sent the aluminum can sailing towards the other side. Shoulders slumping, I watched as the can, hitting a rock, sprang a leak, spewing soda across the driveway.

Later, in the car, Elder still appalled by the unexpected shower, asked, “Why did that soda do that?”

“Well, Elder,” I responded. “It’s only made out of aluminum.”

Shocked, he questioned, “Why is it made out of little M&M’s?”

Now there’s a marketing idea. The can that will melt in your mouth, not in your hands.