It Took Ten Years, But I Finally Managed To Gross Out My Husband

Sunday we dropped in on my parents for a few hours. Jeremy and I had spent most of Saturday cleaning our house so we thought we'd let Henry and Reese run wild at the Grandparents for a few hours. You know, let the kids mess up their house.

As is typical fashion, our kids can do anything at Grandma Jo's and Grandpa Brent's house. Chocolate milk? You got it. Cookies? Well, we don't have any, but let me drop what I'm doing and run to the store right this very minute to pick some up for you. What? You don't want them now? After I've just returned from the store fetching the very cookies you wanted just minutes ago? No problem.

Seriously, it's like a spa for the kids. A Disney DVD, macaroni and cheese with a Twinkie chaser spa at their house. But it's not all about the food. There's also the activities. Guests who stay at Brent and Jo's Bed & Breakfast also have ample opportunity play kick ball, T-ball and an odd hybrid form of tennis-bowling INSIDE their house. As I watched Henry lob ball after ball into grandma's many house plants I thought back to the many times I was scolded for just walking past them too closely. My mom was afraid that somehow I would kill her plants if I even got close enough to breathe on them, let alone touch them. In her defense, she did have a point. To this day I kill any green thing I come in contact with.

But my lack of a green thumb is not the story here. I know. Just when you thought you were about to read an exciting tale of Botany, I pull the rug out from underneath you. No, I had every intention of stopping by the topic of my son's athletic prowess and eventually zipping on over to how immature I am. Keep reading. This post has nowhere else to go but up.

So, after watching Henry kick and throw balls in every corner of my parent's house, Jeremy decided it would be a good idea to get the little guy a T-ball set. I agreed, but added that we ought to start scouting for agents too. You can never start too early. Well, actually you can. I think age three is a little too early. I'm totally waiting until he's five.

Jeremy: Yeah, I think a T-ball set would be a good idea. He's already got a glove.
Me: The blue one?
Jeremy: Yeah, that's the one!
Me: It's a little stiff isn't it?
Jeremy: Bu....
Me: That's what she said!
Jeremy: (disgusted look) But we can fix that.
Me: That's what she said!
Jeremy: (ignoring me) All we need to do is oil it and break it in a bit.
Me: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Jeremy: (now glaring at me) I just threw up in my mouth.

My Muffin Will Do What?

The other night Jeremy slipped into bed after putting a long day in somewhere. He claims it was at work, but I have my doubts. The grass stains on his dockers and the golf clubs in the back of the truck were a dead giveaway. Busted. So anyway, as he laid down next to me I see a confused look cross his face.

Jeremy: What IS that? (Jumping out of bed and ripping the covers back to inspect his side of the bed)
Me: Oh, yeah, that. I let Henry eat a blueberry muffin this morning. On yourside of the bed.
Jeremy: .... (saying nothing, just giving me a disaproving look while dramatically swiping crumbs from the bed)
Me: (laughing)

Fast forward to five minutes later, after all the crumbage had been swept away and Jeremy's comfortably nestled in bed...

Me: Um, Lover? Would you mind scratching my back? I'm all itchy tonight.
Jeremy: .... (again, saying nothing and probably giving me another disaproving look in the dark)
Me: Pleeeeeease?
Jeremy: Why don't you just roll around on the crumbs? It could be like one of those exclusive treatments you have done at a spa only your muffin will do all the work.