I took Maya to the doctor earlier this week so Doc could figure out two weeks of what I will only, for your sake, describe as “intestinal distress”. It was her intestines and my distress, just to be clear– We are not even one full month into 2011 and I have already reached and exceeded the number of times any human should be vomited or shat upon by her own offspring within one calendar year. MY MOM QUOTA HAS BEEN REACHED.
Maya’s doc put her on a bland diet, to see if it’s dietary or an infection of some sort. She is allowed to only eat bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast, plus water. I promptly went about making this into a Big Fucking Deal. Not in a negative way, oh no. I had to make a very precocious three-year-old feel like every piece of dry toast is a manna from Heaven and she’s the only one in the family chosen to partake in such a feast. It was going well, swimmingly actually, until the end of day two, when we headed to a restaurant. I know that sounds unusually cruel– to take the child who is on a cardboard diet to a restaurant where dozens of other diners will be happily enjoying their tasteful vittles– but we had been snowed in and needed to get out of the house before I was forced to swathe my stir-crazy son with duct tape.
So we’re at this restaurant and I’m just exaggerating the shit out of the water to Maya. “Oh my God Maya, you’re not even going to believe it, this restaurant has the best water on the whole east coast. No, I read a review– Five-star water. I’m sooo jealous that you get to imbibe The Water and I have to force down this measly Coca-Cola.” You know, just really laying it on thick– which, I feel a little bit bad about, like in thirty years is she going to be talking to her therapist about the time Mom LIED ABOUT WATER?– but she’s eating it up, she’s just so excited about this glass of tap water, and when the waiter drops it off she looks at him like George Fucking Clooney just brought her a glass of Dom Perignon with an engagement ring and a pony made out of lollipops in it.
The whole time, Taylor is across the table rolling his eyes and pffft-ing and shaking his head, but I’m throwing him the “you keep yo’ mouth shut” look because I’m just trying to help Maya be okay with this shittastic diet, and IS THAT A CRIME, SON?
Maya takes her first sip of The Water and slowly, her eyelids, which at first were planted firmly on her forehead in anticipation of The Water, fell, and she gave me the most contemptuous look I have ever seen a human being give. The secret was out– It was not The Water. It was just the water.
So I’m preparing for the meltdown of the century when Taylor pauses between sips of his apple juice, looks me in the eye, and coolly says, “What did you think would happen? You can’t change water. YOU’RE NOT JESUS, MOM.”