There's a little sandwich shop in the basement of my building downtown. It's not fancy, and the food isn't great. But, when I have a craving for PBJ, it works. The lines are long, and the wait gives me way too much time to explore the candy rack conveniently situated smack in the middle of the shop.
About three weeks ago, a Tootsie Pop called my name. Without much thought, I plunked down an extra 25 cents and tossed it in the bottom of my purse (along with 45 binder clips--I have a binder clip problem. I'm working on it.).
This morning, R.J. had a doctor's appointment. I sprung the news on him around 8, giving him only 30 minutes to ponder and obsess, as much as a toddler obsesses--and he obsesses a lot. "The doctor will check your tummy and listen to your heart. She'll weigh you and see how tall you are," I tell him.
He promptly steps on the bathroom scale, "It say 80-11 pounds. There. I weighed. I'm sorry. I cancel the doctor." He's crafty. (I have the same problem with that scale--it currently says I have gained 35 pounds, but I know that can't be right.)
He chatted up the nurse: "This is my blanket. It's a nice blanket. It's soft. It smell good. I sleep with it." He chatted with the doctor: "I don't poop in the potty, but I toot on it." He speaks the truth.
And then. Trauma. Tragedy. Terror. The dreaded immunization. (I always want to call it a vaccination, but that brings memories of my cats having panic attacks in their plastic kennels. I actually don't kennel R.J. Most days.)
Desperately searching for a distraction, I found...a Tootsie Pop! Perfectly red. Perfectly tasty. R.J. wasn't even suspicious, until the nurse came in with a tray holding a "dandaid."
He was brave. He refused the dandaid and only cried for a minute. Rubbing his leg and looking at me with those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying, hurt eyes, he said, "Mommy, it itches. Fix it." So, I did. He'll never know that mommy's magic itch cream is really cuticle gel designed to give mommy beautiful nails. It works better as toddler itch cream anyway.
I shut his hand in the car door in the parking lot. It hurt. Both of us. He told me, "I was just trying to get in the car. That hurt my feelings." At least he's accurate. It hurt his feelings more than it hurt his hand. Mine too. He dropped his Tootsie Pop in the floorboard. I found it. "What you doing?" he asked me. Sigh. "Mommy's licking the lint off your lollipop for you." (because she'd rather do that than see those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying hurt eyes again).
We ate donuts. We discovered that it really is impossible to find the number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. We survived. And today, I think I'll visit my sandwich shop in the basement and mindlessly plunk down another quarter for another Tootsie Pop.
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