“Maawm! I’m hungry!”
“So eat some breakfast.” I growled from my bed. “Whattawe have?” he shouted back.
“Cereal!”
“I can’t find any. Where is it?”
“Where it’s been for the last 18 years of your life. Did you even look?”
“Yeessssssssssss!”
I peeled the dog off my neck, propped my yard work-sore self up and howled, “For the love of gawd it’s in the stinking pantry!”
My husband stuck half his head through the bathroom doorway, “Is it safe to come out?”
“Safe as it’ll get.”
“Good, because I need you to help me find my over the knee navy blue socks.”
“Have you looked for them?”
“No. Hey honey, take that pillow off your face.”
Through the feathers and clenched jaws, I answered, “They’re in your sock drawer, front right corner neatly folded on top of the below the knee navy blue striped pair.”
“Mawwwwm! I looked in the pantry and still can’t find it.”
I removed the dog, who’d secured herself on top of the pillow, snatched my robe and shuffled to the kitchen, mumbling something about only day to sleep past six, sedatives and certain genetic makeups. I reached into the pantry, grabbed the 46 oz. Bag of Sugar Bomb Cereal Puffs and shoved them towards my precious first-born child. “Mom, I swear I looked in there!” he balked. “Yeah well you obviously looked like a guy. Son, you must—hey, look at me, this is important—eyes right here. You must learn to actually TOUCH and mooove things when looking. Did you expect the Sugar Bomb Puffs to wiggle their way out from behind the mac and cheese when they heard you shouting?”
“But, I—”
“No buts. Eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for your lesson. Did you put your clubs in the car?”
“Uh huh, slurp, exshept I can’t thfind my glub.”
“You can’t find your golf glove? Where did you put it after you played with dad yesterday?”
“I dunno.”
“Did you look for it?”
“Yessssssssssssssss!”
“For the love of gawd it’s on the table by the front door right next to the dish of keys!” His little sister yelled from the family room. “I’m trying to watch The Closer, do you mind?”
The man with the freshly found socks entered the kitchen. “Honey, if you go to the grocery store today, would you pick up some more grape jam?”
“We have three jars.”
“No we don’t. I looked.”
“Refrigerator. Second shelf down, back left corner, behind the sweet relish. There are two extra jars in the pantry—third shelf up from the floor on the Lazy Susan labeled ‘jars’ behind the mayo and in front of the ketchup. Hon-neeey, you must actually TOUCH and mooove things when looking.”
“I thought I did!” he balked.
“Well, think again mister,” I hissed.
“What’d you say?”
“I said, think about what you’d like for dinner, Dear.”
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