Goody

PWEEZE

 

'Be an airplane, Donny.' My three year old honey bun puts his hands out to the side and runs as fast as his little feet can take him. Puckering his lips, he blows out a funny noise trying to sound like a jet and makes crooked circles around the living room. I clap, give him a high five and a kiss right on top of his golden hair. My Mom is visiting and dotes on Donny but she 's not too thrilled with my husband, Rudolph.

 

'Donny, be a car,'  she tells him and off he goes, running in his same small steps, turning his imaginary steering wheel. I smile to Mom. She smiles back and we both applaud. He's happy, can't yet say a lot of words but 'ice cweem, ice cweem.' It just  rolls easily off his tongue. 'Want some strawberries on your ice cream?' I ask. ' His head shakes yes and no, yes and no. 'Want withski.' 'What did you say, Donny? 'Withski, withski. Daddy gives me.' Mother's face has turned ashen.  I give her no time to make a remark but she squeezes in a helluva zinger.  'Marsha, you are fooling yourself. Your husband is teaching Donny something wrong.' I leave her words dangling in my heart and go back to Donny's asking for withski.

 

 'Mom, 'I just  don't understand him. He must be trying to say 'bithkit', he loves warm biscuits, right out of the toaster oven. Maybe my ear wax needs cleaning.' Mom repeats herself. 'Marsha, you are fooling yourself. Watch out for that Rudolph of yours. You have been warned.' I am left standing alone by the window, staring into space, puzzled, confused.

 

'Donny, be a bike. Go ride it someplace.' 'Watch, Mommie!.'  He doesn't hesitate and quickly climbs on a dining room chair, pumps his legs as I showed him only one time. 'Beep, beep,' he goes.' Move, Ganma.'

 

The sunny day has lost its warmth. Black mental clouds rumble as I work myself up into a lather. I totally forget to get Donny his ice cream. There is a tug on my skirt. A little voice says, 'Boo, boo!, I skeeered Mommee.' 'Oh, my little one, how about a glass of chocolate milk instead of ice cream? It's almost time for supper. We have your favorite, little, tiny hot dogs with fries and Grandma bought us all little cinnamon donuts for dessert. How about that?' Donny wants withski not hot dogs.

 

'Come on, Rascal, can you show me where the withski is that Daddy gives you?, I ask. His little hand takes mine. He tries to pull me but I stand still. Another pull and he lets go. 'Mommie too big. Carry me.'
He's like goose down, soft and pliable. His hair still has the faint odor of Gold's Golden blond shampoo. I breath it in deeply and see him growing up, going to school soon, doing what little boys do until they turn into big boys and do other stuff.

 

The wail of Donny's fire engine snaps me back to now. 'Fire, fire,' he yells but I am the only one who can hear him. He grabs my hand again and leads me to the Oriental liquor cabinet in our den, tries to open it but the catch is complicated. I call Mom to help me figure out what might be a secret code.  'Withski, withski,' Donny is excited. 'Open Sesame,' I say and the door obeys me. The entire middle shelf is filled with colas, coke, pepsi, orange, root beer, sassparilla in gill bottles. All of the tops are still sealed. Above those, out of Donny's reach are liquors, liquers, whiskeys, brandies.

 

Mom and I have a hearty laugh, let Donny pick what he wants with his tiny hot dogs. He takes cherry vanilla.