Sweet Mother of Fudge Chapter 8

Chapter 8
 
About the same time my boys found us GC returned from Ariel’s wet and wild line. Apparently, in an effort to cool her body GS put her face full in one of the sidewalk gushers. Repeatedly. She never puts her face in those things. But she did today.

She came back rubbing her eye. We get a bunch of drinks and a few ice creams. BC is looking so cute in his awesome hair style.
GC starts crying and rubbing her eye.

Now it’s time to discuss eyeballs in our family. Everyone has something that gives them the heebby jeebies. For me, it’s big hairy spiders. You can wrap a 12 foot snake around my neck. Throw a rat in each hand. I'll be great. No worries. One baby spider in a room with me and I'm screaming and twitching like a bride-to-be at one of those sample wedding gown sales.


Mr. A lives in fear of making sure he catches the spider I've seen. Or I'll haunt him all night --slapping things and screeching for no reason. Because the spider might be on the loose. I always demand the body of the dead spider on a paper towel platter, like Cleopatra or some evil queen. Except I never look in the towel, cause I hate all the legs.


Gee whiz he’s probably been lying to me all this time I wouldn’t look in the towel.


Damn it.


Anyway. GC has a fear of eyeballs. She's never liked close up pictures, where you see red veins in the white part. One day she asked me about her terror.

 GC in her sweet little voice, with her hands flittering near, but not touching, her eyes ~ “Mommy, what are eyeballs? What are they made of?”
 
Now, I pride myself on being honest with my kids, I'll answer their questions to the best of my abilities.
 
I get down low and capture her hands. I look kindly into her beautiful face and tell her,
“Well, sweetheart,” I try and put my scarce knowledge about eyeballs into little kid vocabulary, “The eyeballs are like little bags full of jelly.” I freaking think that is what they made out of. Who knows, really? 
“Jellybags.” I say with authority.
GC’s own jellybags get large with horror. Her sweet lips part in disgusted surprise.
It's at this point I realize I have given her personal terror more definition, more description than her brain wanted to comprehend. Oops. She runs from me and buries her head in the couch.
 
GC ~ “Jellybags!!!AGGGHHH!!!” she peaks at me “Can they pop?”
 
Me, (against anyone’s better judgment) ~ “Yes, that's why you have to be careful with them”
PS ~ “AGGHHH!! Jellybags”

So of course, like any good parent, I used the fear of jellybags to my advantage. Anytime she wandered in during a part of General Hospital not meant for kids I'd say, “Don’t look!! Jellybags!!!” And she would run in horror, and I could eliminate the offending TV screen with the remote, putting on a family friendly show.


Convenient. And I love hearing the word jellybags in regards to eyes. Makes me chuckle.


Now I know what you're thinking,
“This short sighted mom’s torture of her daughter is going to bite her in the ass when that child needs and eye appointment someday.”

And you would be right. And there was a little voice in my head saying the same thing. But I always figured we would spank that monkey
when we came to it.

I never figured that monkey
drag himself up to sit on a table close to the Dumbo ride in the Magic Kingdom. He sat close to me, smiled his toothy, shaky lipped monkey smile, while wagging his butt at me.
 
I looked at GC rubbing her eye and crying. I take a peek. She obviously has something in it. I examine her more closely and find the problem. The beautiful glitter in her hair. The shimmering teeny tiny glitter that looks like magic and princess sneezes all at the same time. It has migrated from her hair to her face. To her arms, to her hands, to my hands, my shirt where I hugged her.
 
She has this tiny glitter in her eyes. And she's rubbing more into her eye with each pass of her little fist. I stop her. She cries. I know I have to wash her eye. I know it's going to go over like a bag full of tarantulas in my underwear. Not well.

Me ~ “Sweetie, I am going to have to wash your eye with this bottle of water.”
I grab one ice cold Disney snack credit and show it to her open eye.

Say it with me everyone!!


PS ~ “
Jellybags!!!!!Noooooo!!!
In between screams, spanking the monkey, and trying to avoid the glitter, I convince her to let me pour the water on the jellybags. The fact the she lets me do this speaks to her discomfort. She closes her eye when the water comes.

This is not going to work. In the middle of Magic Kingdom, I'm sitting with a screaming girl. The glitter is everywhere and I now see it as a threat. Bystanders are looking at the cute princess screaming, “
Jellybags” I saw a lady trying to help hold up a jellybean. I shake my head no, and mouth, “thank you."
 
I look at my family and say “I've to take her to get an eye wash at First Aid.”

I know what PS is thinking. She has seen three things
washed in her life.
 
1)The dogs, usually after one of them has rolled in poop. This “wash” consists of a dog on a leash being power washed with the hose.
 
2)Her hair. This “Wash” involves soap, scrubbing hands, and a shower head beating on her head.
 
3)And of course the car “wash” Which involves giant scrub brushes, hot oil, and high powered dryer.

She's trying to imagine her little jellybag in all these situations. Ow ! Eww!

The word “wash” becomes the new “jellybag." I make a mental note not to say “wash." Turns out mental notes don’t get thumb tacked to the back of your head for your loving family to see.

Grandma
~ “Getting an eye wash? Great idea.”
 
Grandpa~ “Did you say Eyewash? I agree”
 
BC ~ “Dad, what does an eye wash entail? Will it pop her jellybag?”
Mr. A ~ ”Well son, an eyewash is a process where the jellybag is held open…”

I scoop PS up, and we jog ahead. Geeze. The Jiggler is the least aerodynamic thing to attach to your back. And GS is no small potatoes anymore. 44 pounds of crying squirming fun. First aid is 16 miles away. Wasn’t this place built on the theory of forced perspective? Shouldn’t First Aid be closer?


Well, I was feeling forced. I think the monkey
was spanking me at this point. I was almost there when I looked to my left. Mr. A was trotting alongside.

His giant arm muscles swinging on either side of his body. He's an alarmingly strong man. And I would have loved for him to carry my giant potato instead of me for the past 15 miles.


I pass GC over. My back screams. The monkey
screams. Mr. A carries her so easily. I roll my eyes at him.

We bust into the First Aid place together. The nurse in charge takes us straight back. She was friendly, but had no trouble prying open GC’s eye and
washing the glitter out.
And GC stops crying. The glitter in her eye was washed out.
Finally.

I say to the nurse, “Is there a sink here that I can
wash out this glitter? I'm afraid she will get more in her eye?”

The glitter is all over her body. Each piece is scaring me. After the pins in the head, now she has the glitter nightmare.

 
had saved the day with her ingenuity. While we were glitter warriors our boys were treated to a parade of sorts. I don’t know exactly what it was but, I know Pluto was in it.



The nurse hands GC a trading pin and some stickers. She shakes her head ruefully at me. “Sorry, No.”

She suggests taking GC to the barbershop to have her hair
washed. I know I have to get GC back to the hotel, out of her glitter-filled clothes and get every stinkin' piece of glitter off of her (And now me).

Getting out of the magic Kingdom is such a long marathon of transportation. If I'm in route when another jellybag problem erupts, we will be in for a long ride. Is there first aid in the resorts? I might have to drive her to the ER. What a nightmare.


I take her by the hand and head her to the waiting room. We all fussed over her. So proud she got the
eye wash, which she admitted was not too bad.
In the meantime Grandma had gone back to the Bibbity Bobbity boutique while we were in First Aid and described the experience so far to a manager. She refunded the money Grandma had paid for GC. Grandma refused a refund on BC’s appointment because he'd had no trouble.

As we walked out of the First Aid we were greeted by a Marching Band.



Only in Disney.


We made a mad rush to the barbershop.


Well guess what? They don’t have sinks for hair
washing. They spray the clients’ hair with a spray bottle.

Frustrated.


Grandma
holds up the empty Danasi bottle. ~ “How about we wash her hair in the sink?”

Grandma
is fearless. And thinks quick on her feet. I know she's right. The safest thing to do is get the glitter out as soon as we can.
Grandma , GC and I head into the bathroom by the firehouse. I lay GC across the sinks. Her feet are on one sink, her butt is in the middle of the sinks, and her head is in the last one. Grandma was in charge of holding GC and trying to make her comfortable on the hard and sink filled surface. Automatic faucets are enraged by our efforts. Gushing on and off in an angry symphony.

Ladies crowd close to try and wash their delicate hands.


Me, in a shrill tone~ “Move along People! We have a Princess Down Here, Princess Down!!”


And I'm filling a bottle. Holding my hand on the auto sensor, I pour the water. I'd have liked to go faster but the Automatic faucets will work at their own pace like union employees. I see the sinks digging into her. Trying to get faster. I use the hand soap as shampoo. She's hanging in there like such a giant trooper.


No one is begrudging us taking up three sinks in a busy bathroom after my loud announcement of royalty in danger. Eventually, the hair is much cleaner. Not perfect, but better. Grandma
and I start wiping down her skin with wet paper towels. More glitter is captured and thrown in the trash. Her shirt is soaking wet.

We finally emerge victorious. Grandma


Well, now what do we do? We were planning on staying in the Magic Kingdom all day. And all Magic Hours night. This is our one day in the MK.


I eye BC’s hair suspiciously. Although he does not have princess sneeze glitter, his hair is full of gel and paint. If he gets his head wet, it's going to sting his jellybags. I'm equipped for many things in my bagallini, but not eye surgery. GC’s glitter is still spreading enough for me to worry. We all make the decision to head back to the resort for showers.


To kill the glitter, dead.


Oh no! I'm going to attempt something that no sane adult would ever do. I'm planning on leaving Main Street with out getting the jiggler its fudge from the candy shop.


As we walk out I can almost feel it pulsating. I picture it angry. I'm afraid to take a peak at it. Will I see something evil looking back at me, hissing like Gollum, rubbing it’s cheeks together, plotting to kill me in my sleep?


I've never denied the jiggler its favorite treat in the whole world. I can’t stand the pressure and look at it.


The jiggler is just hanging back there at the top of my legs, following me fatefully like a happy cocker spaniel.


Thank God.


What will we do with the rest of our day? What's in our future? Will I ever get fudge?


Coming next week.... A Poop is a Wish your Fart Makes. 

 

3 comments:

  1. “This short sighted mom’s torture of her daughter is going to bite her in the ass"

    Are you a MINDREADER? That's exactly what I was thinking!

    Phew! What a relief that the jellybags wash averted a national crisis.

    Can't wait for next week's topic.

    ReplyDelete
  2. As someone who has dissected a human eye in my past life, I think you did pretty well in your eyeball explanation. In fact, the eyeball is filled with a jelly-like fluid. See, she will thank you for this when she takes biology later!

    ReplyDelete
  3. @Jennifer Aww. I adore you and your mind reading skills.

    @Grace that is the scariest thing I've heard all day. Haha I'm glad I gave her somewhat correct information. Spanks for dropping by! XO

    ReplyDelete

 

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