Monday, July 8, 2013

Love Your Children

I am hoping that the thing that stands out more than anything from our last five days in Central Oregon is not the night I spent vomiting.  I have only barfed four times in my entire life, so each episode is rather memorable.  The first: the backseat of my mother's blue Chevrolet Nova after eating orange soda and cheetos.  I said, "Mom, my throat feels funny" and then let it loose.  Second: a week after botched eye surgery when the pressure spiked so high in my eyes that I let loose the In-and-Out burger I'd eaten half an hour before.  Third: middle of a sleepless night after eating local Ethiopian food and French chocolate cake.  Fourth: two nights ago, inexplicably, while at our high desert cabin where no one else got sick but me.  I was up all night and am still recovering, not able to eat anything beyond the B.R.A.T. diet (bananas, toast, apples, tea).

The reason for the recounting of My Life in Vomiting is because of something that happened this afternoon with my kids.   They had been given the big task of unpacking their stuff and cleaning up their room (which never really got cleaned after having two friends sleep over for four nights in a row last week).   My husband was doing the bulk of the cleaning while I unpacked and did laundry, with frequent breaks to lay down due to light-headedness and residual nausea.  After one of my ten minute breaks, I found my kids downstairs in the basement bedroom practicing magic tricks with their uncle who is here visiting from Germany.  I took a deep breath and waited before the lecture.

The lecture came and went, and they were sent to their room with instructions not to come out of it, "not even for water or the bathroom" until it passed my inspection of cleanliness. Forty-five (or so) minutes later, after a solo trip to the store for kefir and bananas (all I can really manage to keep down), I came up to check their room. 

They stood together at the door whispering.  My son said the apology out loud and my daughter read to me this note:

"Dear mom sorry for not lisining to you when you told us to do a chor and we are so so so sorry that we disobayd you mom. Love your children."  Big pink heart at the bottom. 

My son immediately spoke up at the end of the reading to say, "It might be confusing to hear 'love your children' because it doesn't mean that you should love your children but instead it means, like at the end of a letter, 'love, your children'."

Maybe it's just me, but I found this hilarious.  I love the idea of my kids signing a letter to me with the reminder that I really ought to love them.

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