“Mom!” Jack called from the family room. “Come here, quick!”
Didn’t sound like he was bleeding or barfing, so I didn’t hurry.
“You’re going to miss it!”
“Look. Look at the TV. You need this.”
I looked, and it was an infomercial for some vacuum bag that you use for storing clothes and blankets.
“See? You suck the air out and everything goes flat.”
“You can keep things for FIVE years. It doesn’t matter if you drive over the bag with a car.”
Really? Good. I was concerned that after I packed sweaters I wouldn’t need for five years (um, okay), sucked the air out of them so they’re flat, found a large mud puddle to drop them in and then drove over them in my SUV, they might be stained. Looks like I am at significant risk unless I call the toll-free number to place my order.
“Mommy, only $29.99. And if you order now, you get a second set as a bonus gift.”
Why can’t they listen to me this meticulously? Why can’t they retain small, one-word commands (like “FLUSH!”) as easily as they can retain pricing to the penny?
“And look! You can store your military uniforms! In the rain!”
Oh, Jack, I don’t own one, single item covered in camouflage. I never have. I likely never will. And honey, I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about storing my military uniforms, regardless of the weather in, apparently, my closet. I don't think I'm a likely candidate for any sort of draft.
“Well, Jack, that’s pretty cool, the way you can just stack things under your bed so easily. And the big sucking thing sure is nifty. But I just don’t think I need that right now.”
He looked at me, blinking. “But Mommy,” he said in disbelief, “Twelve sweaters in one bag! How can you say no?”
I think my work is cut out for me with this kid.