SOS (my son, source of sanity) was away this summer — 7 weeks at camp.
He came home with some virus, etc., that eventually infected everyone in his wake. But more on that later.
Shortly after he came back (with clothes so gross that they needed to be burned), he started sneezing and blowing his nose.
“DUDE, get a tissue!!!”
“E-Mom, it was just a powder, not a mucous heaver!”
Ok, not only does my son have huge, smelly feet, and that slouchy style of sitting but he was distinguishing sneezes for me.
“Dude. Dude. Dude. Dude. Every sneeze needs a tissue and I never want to see a mucous heaver. That requires an exit — post-haste — into the bathroom, ok?”
The “mucous heaver” was a scab waiting to be scratched. I resisted and inquired after the more dainty powder.
“I get what a mucous heaver might be — and all of the joy of living has left me just visualizing it — but what is a powder?”
“A thin, gentle spray.”
Ugh. A thin, gentle spray of typhoid. I renew my demand that all sneezes need a tissue.
A few mornings later, I have a stuffy nose and other symptoms of my son’s “sharing is caring” largesse.
As I am clearing my sinuses in my bathroom, I hear SOS shout from the hallway, “E-Mom, awesome HORNBLOWER!!!”
For a small, embarrassing and base moment, I have fit squarely into my 12 year-old’s world.
Just call me Horatio. Horatio Hornblower. My son is elated.