My son is a picky eater. And after last night, I thank the heaven’s above he is really picky about meat. It was Labor Day. A day for cooking out. My husband is a seasoned smoker and has created many of barbeque delights. He knows the difference in what wood will enhance the flavor, he makes his own rub, and he has perfected a baked bean recipe. The secret to his baked beans is pineapple and jalapenos, sounds weird but it is delicious!
Something went horribly wrong yesterday. Yes, our house is still standing. So not all was lost. I took the toddler to Target in the morning in order to get a few big boy toys and bath necessities. After walking into my favorite little department store heaven, the little boy says “no, I will not sit the buggy. You will hold me and push the buggy the entire time.” He didn’t really use all those words, but I can figure it out with his hand gestures and the limited vocabulary of ‘NO.’
Holding the toddler, and I feel the warmth within the time it takes us to reach the toy department. I don’t mean the Incubus song, “The Warmth.” I mean pee is running down my shirt. I pull him tighter, and become a little more rushed.
The boy then decides this fun little outing isn’t embarrassing enough. He immediately starts calling every strange man we encounter at Target “da-da.” Polite smiles and I say, “No, daddy is at home making dinner. Mommy is here. Let’s get toys.” Give up, grab random things and put them in the buggy. I run into one of my favorite oldest and dearest friends. Toddler screams at her for hugging me. It is time to pay and leave Target.
Arriving home, the neighborhood has the familiar smokey barbeque smell. And as I exit the car, I even think to myself “I bet someone is jealous smelling this goodness.”
Don’t be jealous, neighbors. As we sit down to eat, the boy refuses any meat from the ribs. He refuses Daddy’s homemade baked beans. He even refuses his ice cream dessert. He does eat gold fish crackers and cheese. Wise move, son. You are wise beyond your years.
As I go to bed, my stomach begins to make the gurgles. The upset-something-isn’t-right noise, but I still fall into a restless sleep and wake up a few times with belly aches. Until I wake up with the nausea. The kind I can only liken to the pregnancy days. I am not pregnant. Tell myself “I don’t wanna puke,” and try to go back to sleep. Then it happens. You can’t fight it. You run to the bathroom and don’t know whether to sit or stand while paying tribute to the white porcelain God. Twenty minutes later, I stumble back to bed room to ask the husband one question.
“Do you feel okay? My belly really hurts, I’m sick.”
Through his slumber he mutters, “I’m fine.”
Not for long. It took 30 minutes before he made the same trip I had made at 3 a.m. I contribute my earlier timing to the fact I’m more petite. It took longer to hit him. After a long night and many trips to the one and only shared family bathroom, it was settled upon. It was the ribs. The sweet smokey smell which taunted the neighborhood had poisoned us. The toddler never took one bite. If my son decides to be a vegetarian I am okay with his choice, it probably saved his little life last night.