In a pickle

Jason walked through the door a few minutes after 5. On a class-free day no less (not that I’m bitter). Worn out from lack of sleep and trying to keep two boys entertained without resorting to putting them in front of a movie, I bolted upstairs for a few moments of quiet. My head hadn’t even hit the pillow when I heard raised voices in the kitchen. Followed by a sobbing child climbing the stairs crying ‘Mommy’.

I figured he’d gotten in trouble for hurting his baby brother and had been sent upstairs. I was wrong.

He walked in my room wearing pants, but no shirt. I was perplexed – he’d been wearing a shirt just moments before. And his hair was wet. I tried to understand what he was telling me through his tears ‘……dump water on my head.…’

I asked for clarification, but a small whiff told me all I needed to know: the kid smelled like a pickle factory. From the smell I inferred he must have said ‘….dump pickle water on my head.‘ To make matters worse the kid’s hair was stiffer than a board.

Well maybe there are mothers who can keep a straight face when their stiff-haired shirtless children come to them smelling of pickle juice and sobbing like the world is about to end. But I’m not one of them. I didn’t even try to hide it – I burst out laughing.

In between snorts I had to coerce the kid to get in the tub. Nothing but shampoo could rid him of his pickle hair.

‘What happened?’ I asked when he’d stopped crying.

‘I shook the pickle jar and the juice came out.’

‘Was the lid off,’ I inquired.

‘Yeah,’ came the tearful reply.

At which point Daddy Daycare came up the stairs snickering something fierce. Seems our oldest had grabbed the pickle jar off the counter, unaware the lid had been removed and dumped pickle juice all over himself and the floor.

Now who’s going to mop the floor???

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