The boys perched on their stools at the breakfast bar, eating an unplanned, impromptu dinner as my husband turned off the gas while installing our new dryer. I stood next to my tired husband on the other side of the breakfast bar, eating my own Subway sandwich. I looked at the clock and understood why this sandwich ranked as the best Subway sandwich I had ever consumed: it was almost two hours after our normal dinner time.
Munching and crunching and humming (as BigBrother must make all the noises, all the times) and slurping of drinks took place, but not much conversation tonight. Between the low grade fever that won’t let go and the hard work of installing a new dryer and the all day in Kindergarten and the fact that I worked with a hacking cough and general feeling of the sick today, we didn’t have much to say. Or, three of us didn’t have much to say. LittleBrother shocked us all with this one statement.
“Mommy, when you pack my lunch, don’t pack beer.”
Now, when I packed the child’s lunch in my cold medicine hazed, coughing, hacking grossness, I felt pretty sure that I had not, in fact, packed my five-year-old a beer as his drink for lunch. But, well, I didn’t even drink coffee until 10:30 in the morning and apparently had no recollection of my husband taking him to the bus stop — during which time the poor child fell and hurt his hands on the driveway. I mean, if the cold medicine was really doing its thing, I guess it’s entirely possible that I could have shoved a cold, frosty can of beer in the kid’s lunchbox.
I blinked at him.
“I mean… pop. Don’t pack pop.”
Oh. Okay. Pop. Not beer. Because they’re so very similar.
“Did someone pack it at school today?”
“Yeah. Our principal doesn’t like it.”
“Beer? Or pop?”
So, note. Don’t send the kid with pop… unless I pack a beer for the principal. Got it.