August 02, 2013

Hollow Leg of the Insomniac

An average of once a day, The Boy needs to be reminded to take his meds. I am all about encouraging compliance in this regard. Without the steady stream of chemicals in his system, he'd be all kinds of crazy.

Though he's not addicted to his pills, I go out of my way to make sure that refills are picked up promptly, and that his 28-compartment pill caddy is kept filled.

I also act as his pusher for some of the substances he IS addicted to.

A large bag of peanut M&Ms is history in a few minutes.

Mounds of BBQ sauce and ketchup cover all of the meat on his plate...and I find globs of it on all horizontal surfaces in the kitchen.

His middle name should have been Dyson with the way he inhales his dinner in under thirty seconds.

Salt is sprinkled liberally; Diet Dr. Pepper is an obsession.

One morning last week, I was awakened out of a dead sleep by a noise at the ungodly hour of 5 AM. 

"Mister, are you eating? I hear a fork hitting a plate."

"No, go back to sleep", he grumbled into his pillow. The metallic tapping continued.

"I heard it again! Boy! Get away from this door!"


The Boy stormed down the hall and made his way back to his bedroom. On his route through the kitchen, he left a pair of flathead screwdrivers on the table, one screwdriver from each of his two failed attempts at breaching our inner sanctum.

He failed to score the bakery department brownies The Mister purchased a day earlier.

Yes, we lock our door to keep him away from our cache of forbidden foods. Sure, I could say that The Mister and I need our privacy...but it would be a lie. This is our family secret.

A mini-fridge near The Mister's side of the bed holds lunch meats and leftover animal proteins from dinner that could be served during the next day's lunch; plastic bags of shredded Cheddar await to be stirred in casseroles or tossed into salads. The Boy won't touch the blocks of Cheddar in the full-sized fridge - he's only interested in salad plates filled with melted shredded cheese which burns his tongue as he shovels the golden-yellow, molten mass into his mouth. 

If he had to live with us forever, I imagine we'd buy a second fridge that resembled a gun safe. Inside it, we'd keep 2-liter bottles of soda, frozen pizzas, french fries, and Toaster Strudels - those are the wrappers/containers that I most often find scattered on the counter, stacked in the cabinet BESIDE (but not in) the trash can, or shoved under the sofa.

I feel like a grocery store Sherlock Holmes, always looking for clues as to what has been eaten in the wee hours of the morning.

Back to brownie recon day...

An hour or so later I got out of bed for good (as my nerves were still jangled from the break-in attempts, and a return to sleep was impossible). To The Boy's dismay, I was not carrying the coveted brownies. Instead, I gifted The Boy with a Zip-loc bag filled with four ounces of a white crystalline substance as a peace offering.

Soon, he'd have sweetish iced tea in his gullet, and enough caffeine in his system to make him bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the day. Of course, the sweetness of his beverage wouldn't compare to the full cup of sugar he usually put into the tea maker, but it would suffice for now. Within fifteen minutes, he swilled down a half-gallon of the amber-colored nectar along with a one-quart bowlful of dry Frosted Flakes. Though his thirst was sated, and his belly was full, he was not satisfied...

"Mom, what are we having for dinner today - and can you buy me soda?"


  1. You do what you have to do, in any household. Even if I hide it, hubby finds it and scarfs it down. He's like Mikey or the Boy, he'll eat anything.

  2. Kim--If The Boy goes to college and lives in a dorm, he would have all the cheese and pizza and soda and ketchup and cookies he wants. It's an all-you-can-eat buffet, three times a day...

    Have you thought about fashioning this story into a CS memoir about hardships/obstacles? There's a call-out for those tales. It's a brilliant mixture of humor and authenticity. Really. (from one ketchup-lover to a mother of a ketchup-lover)


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