Thursday, June 29, 2006

Only Four

Yesterday I had a house full of kids. The entire neighborhood seemed attracted by some sonar beacon or dog whistle, undetectable to adults. They Ran in and out from front door to back, up to the X-Box powered bedrooms, and down to the toy laden motherlode of a basement, that I refer to as "that place I dare not go."

I did my best to stay on top of things, but I felt like a cross between a cowboy on a cattle drive, and a San Francisco waiter, working during an earthquake.

At one point, I relinquished my post, for a brief and much welcomed moment of personal privacy on the porcelain throne. Before you could say "Hey mom, spell I-Cup," my moment of liquid zen ended with an abrupt "crgrunchh."

Little Jaylin was in the kitchen attempting to get a glass of water. Our refrigerator has water and ice service in the door. To use it, you slide the lever to WATER, CRUSHED ICE, or CUBED ICE, then push your cup against the button and fill er up.

"Zac's MOMMMM...I wannaglassawater!" CRGRUNCHHH.
"Slide the lever to where it says WATER, honey." CRGRUNCHHH
"Zac's Mom, Ice is commin out. I wannaglassawater!"
"Just a minute Jaylin, I'll be right there." CRGRUNCHHH

"Just a minute" is a phrase indecipherable to little ears, likely because of the interfering sound of the afore mentioned sonar beacon.

CRGRUNCHHH.
CRGRUNCHHH.
CRGRUNCHHH.

As I heard the sound of ice spilling all over my kitchen floor, I launched myself from the toilet like a sprinter pushing off the starting blocks at the beginning of the twenty yard dash. My mind shifted for a tenth of a nano second, to admire the brief remnant of my old athletic prowess as I managed to hurdle the couch, while simultainiously pulling up my undies and shorts. (An event sadly over looked by the Olympic Commitee.)

I rounded the corner to find the little boy looking like a guilty penguin on an ice flow. The blue "Barny" cup in his left hand, overflowed like a sno cone on steroids, while he cocked his head, put his right hand on his hip, and emphatically exclaimed in the cutest little southern drawl;

"Zac's Mom, I'm only four! I Can't Read!"

3 comments:

Trée said...

Thanks for the morning smile. That was an excellent read Kel. I like the way you write. :-)

Kelley Bell said...

Thanks Tree.
I often compare writers and bloggers to artists. There are those trained in the classical schools, and those who are self taught. (The Primitive Artists.)

I'm struggling along in the latter catagory, splattering words around like a drunken Jackson Pollock.

When I wrote this, it felt like I finally managed to apply some of the writing techniques I have studied.

Thanks for the positive reinforcement. It means a lot.

fineartist said...

Three cheers for Zac's mom, she's the bomb dang digity.

Girl you crack me up!