Sunday, July 14, 2013

Short Stories

I frequently make popcorn after the littles go to bed. 4.O seems to like it a lot. Tonight, after the popping is finished, as I'm seasoning it perfectly, I hear a tiny, slightly inquisitive, slightly timid, "Mom?" Coming from atop the stairs. So, I stop salting the popcorn (there was probably plenty anyway).  I say "Yes?" in a slightly annoyed, slightly threatening way as I walk to the bottom of the stairs. Where I then see Brock, who is beginning to retreat up the stairs, sensing my dissatisfaction at hearing my name, well beyond little boy bedtime hour. He begins somewhat frantically explaining himself, "Well, it smells like popcorn up here. I don't know why the popcorn smell has to come in my room. Cause, cause now I want some popcorn." Then I hear it, another, even tinier, more innocent voice from an unseen tag-along little brother, "Popcorn?" And a disheveled, eyes not adjusted to the light yet, sleepy Curtis comes around the half wall to the stair top.

I just smile. Can't argue with that logic. Invariably, if you smell popcorn, you want some. Even old moms know this. The idea of depriving him from fresh popcorn, that he can smell as he lies in bed trying to shut out the thoughts of this salty, succulent treat seemed torturous to me. So, I stop his retreat, and inform him as well as his baby bro, that they can have just one piece. Their eyes light up, Curtis takes his paci out in anticipation, and they scurry down to meet me in the kitchen. I hand them each about 4 kernels. Then a couple more. And off they go, back to bed. No thank you's necessary, as I sensed their appreciation by the immediate return to bed, and the lack of begging for more.  

Just before climbing into his bed, Brock stops, and turns to me, and says, "That was a really good nighttime snack, mom." To that, I kissed him goodnight, and left the room, thinking, "It sure was, Brock. It sure was."

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