12 Short Story Challenge 2018! Number one . . .

THE BRIDGE.    
by Maeve Kousiakis

Prompt: The Bridge.
Genre:
Word count: 1200


The damn duct tape had gotten stuck to itself. She let go of his arm to rescue the piece she’d pulled away from the rest of the roll, but the stupefied arm smashed it’s way back to the bed through the objects on the bedside table.

Absconded coffee from the broken mug crawled its way to the cotton waxing strips lying in a heap on the floor. The lamp, now on the floor on its side – shade separated from stand - expressed its distress with flickering protests.

Wafting suggestions from the mess had brought Chicco over from his sleep on the chair to inspect the promise of a treat. Nikki leapt, kicking the waxing strips out of the encroaching spoils’ path on her way to grabbing the poodle before it indulged in the Rohipnol laced beverage.

“This is SO not going to plan. Trust me, you don’t want that, pooch.” Nikki said to the dog.

She pushed the fluffy scavenger out the bedroom and pulled the door closed. Retying her robe, she looked back at the scene. Adam was out for counts.

His arm hung over the edge of the bed overlooking a puddle of wasted coffee happily soaking up a pair of socks, most of the bedside mat and two scatter cushions that were in its path while the lamp had given up it’s distress signals and died, leaving the room in semi dark, coffee drenched quiet.

Chicco, intent on getting to the prohibited coffee, scrambled at the door, hoping it wasn’t latched properly.

The waxing strips managed a narrow escape, and were still dry and piled in a heap on the wooden floor. The tub of Mandy’s Microwaveable Water Soluble Hair Removing Wax had survived the arm attack and sat on the bedside table, warm and ready for application.

She’d pulled off the bed covers and stripped Adam naked as soon as he’d passed into the dumb haze induced by the drugged coffee. She smiled.

“Chicco! Stop it!” she turned and hissed at the door.

Nikki switched on the lights in the bedroom and fumbled around for the duct tape roll. Adam moaned in his numbed state.

“Oh no you don’t, I’m not done yet.” She replied as she returned to restraining her rotten excuse for a husband while he was still senseless.

“How many Adam? Did you do them in our bed? Hmmm? Tell me, darling, I need to know these things. I need all the sordid details.” She crooned to him sarcastically while she started anchoring the second arm.

His feet didn’t reach the posts of the four-poster. She had to fold the duct tape over on itself to make a “rope” and secure that to the bedpost, and then the foot to the secured rope.

“So, tell me angel-pie, what was that you said about “building a bridge?” I was so upset when you thought my reaction was over sensitive. You said I should get over it, and that it was a once off fling, in the heat of a drunken induced lack of judgment.” So sweet and serene, she sounded.

“I thought there might be something wrong with me. The first time nearly broke me, but you were right. Everyone deserves another chance. I really should be more understanding of boys night shenanigans.” Her tone suddenly changed from sarcastic innocence to icy anger.

“But then I came back to my senses.” She said through clenched teeth. “I’m in the process, though, of building that bridge. Like you said.”

Adam’s eyes were open now. He focused on her face, and then looked around.

“Wha . . . what are doing?” he groaned, trying to roll over.

“What- what the hell? Is that duct tape?” incredulous, her re-focused on her face as she settled next to him on the bed.

“Yes. Yes it is. Do you like it? One can literally do anything with a role of duct tape.” She cooed.

“What the fuck Nikki? Seriously, what the hell is going on? Why am I tied to the bed?” he said.

“My bridge, Adam, darling.” She replied. “You know, to get over the horror of the fact that you stuck your dick into someone else. Again. That jersey on your chest is . . . his-tor-y. Don’t worry, it will just hurt a little bit.” She grinned.

Nikki reached over to the bedside table for the wax. Dipping the spatula into the tub, she pulled out a globule. It sat around the edge of the spatula as she fumbled to put the tub back, then, catching up with gravity, the glob morphed its way down where her fingers held the handle.

“Holy crap that’s hot!” She dropped the globuled spatula into Adam’s groin. Right where the hair is thickest between the scrotum and the leg.

“AAAAAh!” Adam screamed. “It’s hot! It’s hot! Goddam it!” He writhed around, trying to move from under the hot wax.

“Shit. Shit. Shitshithshitshit. . . .” Nikki was knocked off the bed in the turmoil as she tried to put the tub of wax on the bed stand. The tub missed the edge of the bed stand and landed on the floor. It sat, upturned, on an island of wax while the coffee welcomed it to the chaos on the floor.

Nikki scrambled for the spatula, and not realising the hair had already been engulfed by seeping wax, she ripped it up. The hairy globule separated from Adam’s groin with a sticky ripping sound. Adam’s brain registered that part of his groin had just been separated from his body and announced its removal with a monstrous yell.

Nikki saw that the wax had fused skin and hair, and that a large amount of both were attached to the spatula and in her hand. Bloody spots began emerging from the ripped, skinless area on her husband’s tender bits.

“Well, will you look at that?” She said with satisfaction. “It’s not going that badly after all.”

She then caught sight of Chicco, and realised why the scratching on the door had stopped. He had conquered the door and was trying desperately to back away and remove his tongue from the heap of cooling wax underneath the upturned tub in the middle of the coffee bath on the floor.

Nikki dashed to the bathroom for water to dissolve the wax and free Chicco’s tongue, while Adam whimpered his profuse apologies and begged her to untie him.

“Nikki! Please! I’ll do anything, just untie me.” Begged Adam.

She stuck her head up from kneeling on the floor to look at him and paused.

“Well, that thing ain’t doing much for a while,” she smirked at his groin.

“Next time, it might not be wax, dear. And I might not be so nice.” She said as she stood up with Chicco under her arm, ruffling the poodle’s hair and kissing him on the nose.

She fumbled in the bedside table's drawer for the emergency-only-back-up-plan. Grasping the knife, she sliced through the left foot anchor, and dropped the knife next to the free foot. Adam squirmed.

As she left the room, amid protesting pleas from Adam, she shouted from the passage, “Good luck sweetie! Oh, and Lorena Bobbit sends regards.”

She Didn't Need It Anyway. By Maeve Kousiakis.

Prompt: She never needed it anyway.

Genre: Drama

Word count: 300

She repeated it again to herself.

“Check in with the nurse at reception. Find a chair against a wall. Take out the documents. Put them under my shirt. Put the gun in my mouth – pointing upwards. Pow.” She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Vanessa got out of the car in the dark parking lot and made her way to the doors of the emergency room. She could feel the gun, like a comforting weight, grounding her to calmness. Relative to its size, it was ridiculously heavy in her handbag.

“How long to see the doctor?” she asked the receptionist.

“Ten minutes. Kindly fill in the form and take a seat.” replied the receptionist.

It was Friday morning, 9am. The hospital’s emergency waiting room was empty, just as planned. She handed the forms back and found a seat with her back to the wall. She took out Ashleigh’s photo with the note on the back.

“My darling Ash,

It is so wasted on me, this heart. The meds have no effect at all in fending off the darkness inside me these days. It would seem the soul purpose of my place on this planet was to grow you a proper, working heart. A bit of me will be in you forever now, beating life through your veins. May it serve you as well as it has me.

All my love forever, Aunty Van.”

She took out the papers and tucked them under her shirt with the photo. Safe from the impending fluid explosion inside a Ziploc bag, they detailed in heavy legal jargon, her compatible blood group and request for her heart to go to her niece.

Taking out the gun, she positioned it in her mouth, pointed it up, breathed in, and pulled the trigger.

Short story challenge entry . . . www.12shortstories.com

Prompt: Cut the Strings | Word count: 1000 | Genre: Drama

Cut The Strings by Maeve Kousiakis

Winnie watched the sky. It was Highveld Winter Blue, a perpetual canvas of blinding cyan, not a single wisp of cloud. She struggled to keep her eyes from being distracted by the chaos at the starting line.

Coaches were voicing jarring commands to runners busy with warm ups. Beady, judging eyes from sports scouts and gawking lenses of photographers jostled for the best view.
She kicked her legs and wriggled her ankles with her hands on her hips, sweaty palms to Lycra vest. If she pretended they weren’t there she could shut them out and focus.

Short Story Challenge - number 7 . . . for the mommies out there.

Coming Undone by Maeve Kousiakis

“Haggis! Oh my god, do you have to . . . every . . . time. Aarrgg. That is so utterly, despicably horrible.” In her attempt to conserve energy in order not to throw up, Meghan had deserted the toddler’s nappy and focused on the dirty bum first, so the nappy had found itself sneakily ensconced in pug drool on its way to being devoured at a quieter retreat.

Just twenty minutes ago, Meghan was on her back on the couch with little Billy fast asleep on her chest and Haggis the pug, unusually, asleep at her feet. She had heard the Barbet calling from the tree outside the window and the smell of rain wafting through the breezy curtains in a smidgen of short-lived peace.

Billy had stirred, realised that he had lost the battle against keeping his eyes open and broken into a howl. The pug, now recharged, had made an instant beeline for Billy’s bottom, producing an explanation for the smell increasingly asserting itself.

Meghan got up holding the toddler while fending off the persistent pug still tugging at the nappy. Once up, she realisied there was a reason she had been on the couch. Nausea welled up and all the previous nights cocktails were diluted to an insipid cup of tea.

Meghan, putting Billy on his back, prepared for the onslaught of yuk and got lost in her thoughts about how last night’s “Girl’s Night Out” was maybe not that worth it after all, and that hangovers and kids go together like custard and sardines.

A tip that people conveniently left out about having kids. Just like the other little things. Small, nasty details like stomach muscles that separate during pregnancy that give you a lifelong paunch and that you will never jump on a trampoline again without soaking your knickers because the muscles down there no longer take part in bladder control. It’s a long list.

“Get a baby sitter. Go out. It’s good for you.” The advice had fed a nagging urge for a taste of life before kids. Meghan was in love with motherhood, but sorely missed the world of music and movies and fine dining.

Snapping back to the stinky chore at hand, Meghan had caught sight of the escaping pug. She clambered over the floor peppered with toys, catching up with it on its way to the garden for an appetizer of toddler excrement.
Forcing the pug between her legs as she knelt, she grappled sticky gels and teeth, prying open stubborn jaws. The pug, not ready to relinquish it’s find, scrambled and jumped at her hands as she stood up.

Managing to connect a tooth with the nappy, the pug succeeded in presenting the cream carpet directly to the mushy, digested bits of last night’s supper. Stumbling as it returned to the ground from its attack, the pug landed on top of the face-down-mess, introducing the soft goo very much more intimately to the dry carpet fibers.

Gagging, Meghan lifted it up and stumbled back to the drawer and grabbed the box of nappy bags. It was empty. The new box sat staring at her in defiance in making any step through this maize of chaos easier for her. She grabbed it and ripped it open with her teeth, while dangling the rescued nappy between finger and thumb.

The pug, undeterred in its course of action, was frantically licking the carpet. It’s back legs circling the front, head and mouth fixed to the carpet, as it desperately tried to ingest carpet and delicious condiment, while Billy was whining to be picked up.

“Gimme a second Billy-boo. I’ll get you now. Mommy’s got a small, tiny little challenge here.” She dashed out to the kitchen dustbin (which had found a new lookout position on top of the counter to avoid further raiding by the pug) and grabbed cloths and floor cleaner.

The toddler, as toddlers do, did not stay still. He rolled over and down the side of the bed and landed firmly with his bum - more of last night’s digested supper sandwiched between bum and carpet - and toppled onto his back. Wriggling over to his stomach and up to a sitting position, a brand new artwork of contrasting brown smudges on cream canvas appeared.

Meghan got back to multiple wounds to the cream carpet. (Another thing to add to the list of conveniently forgotten details: Don’t have cream carpets. Actually, don’t have carpets at all).

Lifting up the toddler, before he realised that the brown stuff on the carpet could make more streaks with the help of his fingers, Meghan fumbled with the bottle of carpet cleaner. It fell. She expertly swung the toddler - with bum side to jersey – under her arm attempting to catch it. The carpet cleaner bottle bounced and released its contents, which spread over the carpet and neatly missed the scene of destruction it was supposed to have addressed.

Meghan threw her head back and sighed as she realised the state of her jersey.
“Fuck. Could it get any worse.” She said loudly.
What was that crash? Where was that pug? She ignored both worrying sentiments to attend to her and Billy’s imminent hygiene needs.

“Billy-boo, if you squirm around it’s just going to take longer.” Said Meghan, her fingers straining to press the Velcro tag into place while holding the other flapping side of the new nappy, her arms pinning down the chest and flailing limbs of the toddler.

This had all become second nature, but doing it with a hangover in tow was brand new territory. A half a bag of wet wipes later, she was able to strip off her brown smudged jersey, grab Billy and head for the new source of necessary damage control.

At the kitchen door, Meghan gasped. The pug, covered in Neapolitan source, which she had thrown in the dustbin last night, was gorging itself on chicken bones and nappy entrails. Bits of litter and left over food and serviettes were strewn all over the floor, dotted with vegetable skins and crusts of soggy bread. A discarded bottle of juice had come open on its way down from the top of the counter with the dustbin and settled itself in between the rest of the detritus.

A draw had been left open, which the demon pug had clambered up and found a way to the dustbin. In it’s desperation in turning over the dustbin, it had knocked over the kettle, adding a liter of water to the concoction covering the floor. Another casualty of the incident was the minced meat sitting on the counter, defrosting for supper.

Meghan stood defeated. Shoulders drooped and head back, she groaned.

“Fuck.” Said little Billy.
She whipped her head around to look at him, innocence incarnate on her hip.

“Fuck.” He repeated with a big, wide grin, eyes wide with excited pride, searching for approval.

Meghan collapsed on the couch and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.


“Hi. Matthew? Honey, help. Please can you pick up some supper on your way home? Your wife is currently out of order. Oh, and Billy said his first word!”

12 Short Story Challenge - no.6 (because why start with no.1?)

She opened her eyes again to the same bewildering blackness.

“It’s still so pitch black. Where the hell am I?” she whispered.

Her voice sounded foreign, like someone else was talking.

“Why is it so flipping cold? Hello?” she said to nobody.

There was only black. Her voice reverberated back as if the walls were clad in fluffy carpet. The air was thickly disorientated. She couldn’t fathom whether she was sitting or standing or lying down. Her feet were like ice and her hands were numb, moving them was like wading through dark syrup. It was so cold her breath was hurting her throat.

There was warmth when she turned her head. She tried to get closer. Her body was too heavy and un-obliging. She figured out that when she turned her head, her body seemed to morph in that direction. Facing more towards the warmth, she seemed to get closer to it.

There was a glow, working its way through the black from the warmth. It pulsed the scent of early summer jasmine, that outlined feelings of bare feet on green grass with sticky watermelon and the brushing of white cotton, billowing at open windows.

“Am I sleeping? Am I blind?”

Confusion mounting as vivid memories of summer disappeared. She turned away. The cold began biting again.

“Hello? Help. I don’t know which way to go.”

She managed to put her hand up to her face and realised she was whimpering. Why was she sad? She couldn’t remember, but the sadness was tangible. It was squished in between her fingers and molding with the sticky black. Her hands displaced it like little Davie’s playdough. David! Where was her Davie?

The light became blinding. Welcoming the warmth, she tried to move faster. Her body would not reciprocate the urge. There was a feeling of unexplained urgency to get to the light – and to find Davie. A Feeling of contentment drew her towards the magnetic Jasmine.

“Mommy!”

A faint cry. She put her hand out to touch it. The realisation knocked her backwards and she hurtled towards the cold, the wind ripping up her hair. Davie was gone. She remembered. She could still feel his little fingers, as they released pressure while he passed his last strangled breath.

The brutal sadness engulfed her. So many pills at once proved more difficult than she had planned. They had scratched her throat, and were threatening to come up again. No – they were going down, like a pipe forcing it’s way into her lungs. The sad cold was unbearable. She gave up and let it take her. It dumped her on the sheets. Her body was limp, aching for the warm scent of jasmine.

“I have a pulse doctor!” shouted a woman.

A cacophony of beeping as hands roughly busied themselves around her face.

“Respirate!” replied a man. “Vitals are stable, transfer to surgery.”

The tear forced it’s way out of it’s crevice and down her temple and evaporated with the warm jasmine scent.

The White Protester.

You are mistaken. You think I am leaving my office tomorrow, for the biggest march in South African history, only because my white privilege is under threat. You are wrong. You think the reason I am showing face in protest is because my wallet has now been affected by Zuma’s guerilla tactics in capturing the state, and the fall of the rand. You are wrong. I love my country. I love South Africa. I love the people. I hate what the government has done with it’s twenty year reign after apartheid was abolished. Nothing has changed.

I am third generation white South African. Yes, I am privileged. I grew up in apartheid South Africa. I lived in a safe, white suburb where there was a good school. I got an education. My parents had enough money to get me a beat up old Mazda that got me to college. Which they also paid for. I could then get a job. I did not have an unemployed, extended family that ate up my whole pay cheque every month just to stay alive. I could get a bond to buy a house and a nice car. I have children who I can now educate with the same standard of education I had. I do not for one minute take this for granted.

I have come to know the evils of racism through stories. The atrocities of apartheid. Not just the “whites only” signs on benches in parks and public toilets and beaches. Not just the physical removal of people of colour from their homes and dumped as far away from white towns as possible. But also the hidden implications and the psychological torture of the ripping apart of families where children grew up without their fathers. Sometimes without their mothers too. Who had access only to minimal education so were set up for unemployment from childhood. The brainwashed notion that being a black made you inferior to a white purely because the government had literally beat it into your elders, who in turn passed it, unconsciously, to you. It takes generations and generations to undo that kind of societal damage. I understand where the hatred of me comes from.

But it was not me. My grandparents and great grandparents sowed the poisonous seeds. I did not take your land. I did not deny you an education and job. I was not even born when these things happened to your fore fathers. I took part in those first exciting democratic elections as a naive teenager only just old enough to vote. I can never undo the shameful acts of my predecessors. I read books and stories about how bad it was for people of colour under apartheid. I cry. But I cannot undo it.

What I can do is NOT jump on a plane with my European-passport-holding husband (kids and investments in tow) to go and live in another country. I can stay. And pour my white, privileged education and knowledge back into the economy by working and paying taxes. And protest. Hoping that the government introduces decent, free education to everyone so that BEE can actually be successfully deployed. Where it can benefit the whole underprivileged population and not just an elite few. It’s been twenty years.

This is my country too. Whether you like it or not. And I will fight for it just like you. Next to you. I will be awkward and probably break out into Kumbaya My Lord, so you will have to stop me and teach me how to be an effective protester. Amandla! And what comes after it. I have had no experience in standing up to the government for anything. I know that the Gupta alliance which is now in full control of our country is more damaging to those poor, hopeless, underprivileged souls first abused by apartheid, and now abused by the ANC. The nobodies. The ignorant, vulnerable mass of voters. Our people. I am marching tomorrow because they will suffer the most. Again. From a crippled economy destroyed by greed and crony-ism among the very people they faught for freedom with, and who they appointed to lead them.

I am the white, inexperienced protester I ask you not to hate. Jacob Zuma is not my president. Not because is black. But because he is a greedy rapist. He has raped women. He has raped South Africa. While the rest of the ANC have stood as bystanders and watched the sadistic violation of our country.

He must go. Now.

#zumamustfall

A DAY IN THE LIFE. AND NOT A GOOD ONE.

When you open your eyes and in between the knife jammed between your ears, and the confusion of the brightness of the room for that time in the morning, the most logical conclusion your brain would deliver is that there was a huge explosion in the night - hence the dull thud in your skull - and that the planet has been knocked off its axis and changed the rising of the sun’s time. It probably would have come to it’s sense though, as mine did and told you that you’ve opened your eyes on Monday morning to an unexplained headache and the alarm didn’t go off as it should have for the minor weekday-panic-spree. Therefore escalating imminent minor panic spree to major panic spree and it’s not even 8am. 

This does not bode well for the day’s forecast.

Neither does the spindly, eight-legged intruder dangling a few centimetres from the ceiling over my duvet. Diving out of bed in panic onto the snoring pug causing mad squawking. Destroying the once sleepy silence with scurrying claws to laminate floors. An extra struggle exerted by my body to not landing spread-eagled on the bedroom floor strains that volatile groin muscle, again. I grabbed the wall for support and straightening up, took a quick reconnaissance of the scene. Spider scurrying across the ceiling for cover. Pug snorting and grinning in excited animation at the prospect of the dull night over and ready for play - despite the slight limp in the left leg from human foot connecting with pug body earlier. Definitely not a small headache, could be bordering on migraine but it’s too early to tell, and was that the familiar ache in the groin (which took months to heal last year) back? Well, it could be worse. Yip, it just did - the youngest has been disturbed. The the toddler flaps around in sleepy dis-coordination under his blanky. There is movement but no sound yet. Tip-toeing out the room stealthily I reach the passage and throw my head back, sighing eyes rolling, shoulders slumped, as Pug skilfully negates all my efforts of keeping youngest sleeping by noisily mining a path in the slippery laminate floor in a desperate attempt to gain speed and beat me to the kitchen. 

As I scoop up complaining youngest and hurry down the passage while cooing happy phrases of pretty blue skies with no clouds and the happy sun is awake and will keep the rain away today, I try and workout how I will get all the lunches made and packed. With one hand. In record time aswell as we have all overslept. Youngest does not like to be put down at this time in the morning, the reason for trying to postpone the early disturbance of sleepy silence.

The usual mad rush to get everyone dressed and looking respectful for their daily destinations goes along as usual in it’s splendid chaos with nothing more out of the ordinary. Once half of them (oldest and Dad) are safely on their way to school with all amenities packed, a nestle on the couch with the youngest and a cup of tea as the norm, is rudely interrupted by a mad fumble for the ringing phone. It was Dad. Turning back just before the school gate. With oldest still whinging in the front seat about the wrong socks. Dad stops short of hurling oldest out the car door in my direction while still in motion to get to his early morning meeting on time leaving oldest for me to sort out. A mad washing and dressing and combing to resemble something less frightening and more like mom ensues. Oldest and youngest both jammed back into the car and it’s off to school again. One hour late. But both get to school eventually, and that day-at-the-spa calm returns like normal at the doors of the office. Just until school ends though, which comes all too quickly. Then it’s off again - to face the chaos. 

A horrible cacophony of noise erupts from oldest as he is forced to leave the playground before the usual after-school playtime in order to make the dentist appointment. It’s youngest’s first one - so nerves are writhing. Will it be a mad wrestle and writhe to the robotic chair with much accompanied squealing or will it be . . . there will probably be no “or” so accept the latter. The dentist’s forecast was some expensive jaw and teeth orthodontics on oldest, and booked youngest for a general anaesthetic in a month’s time to repair a number of cavities. Both diagnoses send the wallet cringing and wailing for mercy to the darkest corners of my handbag. Back home we go and after a ridiculous exchange on the way with oldest about how he cannot hang from the window and decapitate himself on a sign post while driving. I realise they have not eaten. It saves a multitude of tantrums if both are constantly well fed. The quickest way to get that done is chocolate sandwiches. Much loved, not a complete non-no with regards to nutrition and easily slapped together. As I consider how to approach the  homework war for the afternoon with oldest, youngest looks odd. I move closer and note his distorted cheeks and mouth. Hives beginning on the lips and inside the mouth. Literally while I’m talking to him, trying to find out where he found the nuts he must have eaten, his face and ears turn a crimson red. He is scratching his arms  and legs aggressively. 

He has quite a serious nut allergy, which I haven’t been taking seriously. It’s never gone to the point of actually ingesting the nut product so I’ve never had to worry about complete anaphylactic shock. Yet. I glance at the empty plate on the table. Not once has he ever finished a sandwich. (Note the spelling of NUTella. Apparently it’s easy for moms to miss the main ingredient as it’s not actually in the name of the product). Today he did finish a whole sandwich. Crust and all. When it had a healthy spreading of an ingredient that could literally kill him. If I ever needed confirmation of the suspected nut allergy, here it was. In all its beautiful display of perfect hives and flushed complexion and puffer fish characteristics. On my little toddler’s face. And arms and legs and even the soles of his feet. He asks me in an uncharacteristically gruff voice for more “chokit sammich”. That change of voice meant a swelling throat. Without hesitation, I yank both kids into the car and speed off to the emergency room. Thankfully not even a minutes drive from our house. Especially not a minute when all stop streets, pedestrians, village boom gate and red robots miraculously disappear from the route. Oldest was wowed with our speed around the corners and suitably impressed with the skid down the parking ramp.

I will, for the rest of my life, give continuous and inundated thanks to Jokichi Takamine for the discovery of adrenalin. As far back as the early 1900’s. A lifesaving hormone originally purified from adrenal glands of sheep and oxen. Probably the most important medical discovery of all time. According to me. Not thirty seconds after the doctor jabbed the needle into that sweet little bottom, had all symptoms disappeared. I don’t mean, wore off rather quickly or lessened to a degree of slight swelling and mild symptoms. I mean gone. As gone as not there. Zero visability. “Schrodinger’s cat” come “the box was never opened”. Absolute Houdinified disappearance. To you, Jokichi - for all those late nights and hard research in that Japanese lab. Salutations!

And then me. Left there, wondering if I could slip out while no-one was watching and pretend it never happened. I did effectively earn a night in the hospital (as a precaution) for my efforts. For observation, they said. I’m not sure if this was cause or effect of admitting that he got the Nutella from me when questioned by the nurse and doctor and receptionist at the front desk. 

“How did he get the Nutella?”

“From me.”

“Well at least you know about the nut allergy now.”

“I already knew. I just forgot that he was allergic to nuts. And that Nutella is made from nuts. And I had a bad day.”

Arched eye brows from all three at this response. Observation . . . of how mom and toddler interact and make sure that there was no premeditated abuse involved.

So, Mother of the Year Award goes to . . . I actually landed my little boy in hospital. Through complete and NUTter negligence. I doubt any of you reading this could top that. Next time you have a bad day, come back and read it again. 

You’re welcome.

: )