Yesterday my daughter walks into the computer room with glistening wet legs. She struts over to where I am using the computer and points her toe and fully displays her leg for me in the light.
"Look momma! I washa-wit-iceream" she chirps with glee. "With what?" I ask.
"Iceream. She repeats. "I wash-ana-playroom I crean."
I jump up and run down the hall into the play room where I find a half empty McDonald's Sundae cup laying on the couch. Melted ice cream is all over the couch, the rug, and the throw blanket.
I turn to see Dylan sitting quietly on the rug on the other side of the room playing with his trains.
"Dylan?" I ask calmly.
"Did you notice that your sister was eating in the play room?"
"Did you notice that she was eating ice cream?"
"Honey, did you notice that she was slathering her sundae all over her legs?"
"THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU COME GET ME!" I yell. Sending his little body into a spasm sending the train is his hand flying across the room. He looks up at me in fear, like a turtle about to be smashed under a truck.
"What?" I give him the nasty mother glare. The glare that says if you don't say something better than that your little life is in danger.
"What?....sorry, but I don't know...what am I supposed to say?"
"You are supposed to yell. 'Mommy! Come here Alice is making a mess'".
"That's okay this time, but seriously the next time can you please help me out?"
I believe that I have had this conversation with my son at least 4 times a day everyday since Alice started walking. Alice could have a chainsaw in her hand and the boy wouldn't come get me. She could be playing with lighter fluid and a lit torch and he wouldn't even bat an eye lash. I don't know if he is lazy, or if he loves to see his kid sister in trouble? Or is he just practicing to be a husband? I don't know.
A few hours later the kids are watching the Wizard Of Oz and I am cooking dinner. All of a sudden I hear a miracle. I hear Dylan screaming at the top of his lungs. "Mommy! Mommy! Alice has scissors! Come here Mommy!"
I drop my zucchini and dash into the living room where Alice is cutting a big chunk of her hair off with her little pink toddler scissors. I grab the scissors in one hand and loose hair in the other. Disaster averted. Well almost averted. She did manage to cut off a good sized wedge of hair, but since her hair is thick and wavy like mine you can't really tell.
My son Dylan saves the day. My son actually listened to me and did what I asked. I feel like this momentous occasion needs to be commemorated in some way? Perhaps we can get the Vatican to come validate and recognize this miracle of parenting for the history books? Perhaps it's just enough to write the story here on this blog for all to see. Let it be known that on this date in 2009, Tuesday, the 16th of June, my son Dylan, listened to his mother and with out nagging or reminding, did what she asked him to do.