The call came while I was still in my pajamas. “Josiah threw up at school.”
What? We’d just seen him at 7:15 when Paul brought Daniel over. Josiah was fine then, even giggling when he sneaked an orange slice candy.
Paul was headed out of town, Sarah was at work. Could we pick him up? Todd and I looked at each other and said, “Strawberry Pop-tart.”
The last time Josiah had a throw-up incident, he said the cafeteria ladies must have served him a bad Pop-tart.
I put on some clothes, grabbed a bowl, and Daniel and I headed for school.
“All I had was an orange juice,” Josiah said as I traded him the bowl for his backpack. “And that candy. I think I had too much orange.”
I was glad I brought the bowl.
I’ve always had nice sick day memories. How my mother would wheel in the little cart with our small black and white television. How I’d eat saltines and drink ginger ale and watch The Price Is Right. Maybe Josiah and I could make some sick day memories too.
Once we got home and I tucked him into my bed, he made a remarkable recovery.
Within a half hour, he was organizing his Pokemon notebook.
After that, I caught him lifting my weights.
Then he ate a cup of applesauce, “just to test out my stomach.” His stomach was fine. He ate two more cups.
At ten-thirty he said, “I’m ready for lunch.” I brought in a tray: one peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, a cut-up mango, and milk. NO ORANGE JUICE.
After lunch he found the remote and turned on his favorite thing, something I CANNOT STAND: a video of someone playing a video game. Some young person once tried to explain this to me. (Maybe it was his father?) Whoever it was said, “You know how people like to watch other people play football? Well, it’s like that.”
It made sense, but sorry. No.
I made Josiah a deal. If he’d turn off the television, we could go in my office and I’d read him whatever he wanted. He went right to my old Golden Treasury of Children’s Literature, and picked something out.
“There’s a small part of The Hobbit in here!”
“GREAT!” I said, “Let’s read that!”
Friends, the small part was 23 pages long, single-spaced—and he wanted to spin around in my office chair while I read.
“Honey, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, “unless you want the bowl back.” He stopped spinning.
Fourteen pages in (after he’d explained the part about the mark on Baggin’s door and taught me how to pronounce “Smaug”) he wandered off, returning to say, “I’m curious about the little bowls in your refrigerator and what is in them.” It was chocolate mousse. He ate one of those, too.
By the time Todd came home from work, he’d used my ruler and scissors to make teeny tiny bits of paper, he’d eaten several handfuls of peanuts, and we’d printed out images of Godzilla and a dragon we found on the internet. Josiah was ready to help Todd with the rewiring project in our bedroom. (“Lucky I’m here. I can hand you the tools.”) When Todd pulled the attic steps down, he offered to go.
“Sorry, buddy,” Todd said. “But that’s too dangerous.”
“That’s okay,” Josiah said. “I’m kind of hungry anyway.”
He requested a BL sandwich, adding, “I’m not really a tomato guy.” We were out of bread and only had one piece of bacon in the fridge, but he only needed one piece. A hotdog bun would work just fine.
“Thanks, Lala. That was great.” Josiah handed me the buns. “I’ll have an L sandwich, please. Just a touch of mayo will do the trick.”
It was a sick day memory. How could I say no?
