Rocket Boy

rocket-boy.jpg
 Rocket Boy

Rocket Boy

Okay, so I have this little boy. He's had many nicknames in his short 3.5-year-old life so far. Cutie patootie. Peanut. Calvin. He Who Shall Be The Death of Me. You know, the usual. But he is now, and will forever be, Rocket Boy. This is a name he gave to himself last Friday while at the local quilt shop.

Since he chose a particularly painful like a hot poker in the eye colorful presentation for sharing this new moniker, I'll let the story tell itself:

Picture a charming quilt shop, the shelves carefully arranged with beautiful fabrics and a tantalizing array of fat quarters.

My little boy and I are poised and ready, at the counter with a stack of fabrics, lovingly hand-selected by said boy for the quilt we are working on together for his bed. I am giving cutting instructions to the clerk.

Me: I think we need half yard of the blue and half of the red.

Gootz is nowhere to be seen. (Gootz is my husband's nickname.)

Suddenly my son starts doing this bizarre thing. He stands still, poised, then takes off running across the store. With sound effects.

Son: FFFFFFtttttttSSSSSssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Clerk: How much of this one?

Me: Goodness, my son just ran off....

Clerk: How much?

Me: Sorry, I just.... Half a yard, please.

My son appears from nowhere and screeches to a stop in front of me.

Son: Here you go.

He hands me a fat quarter.

Me: What's this?

Son: Faberick. I picked it. It's small. Like me.

Me: Where did you get this?

Son: FFFFFFtttttttSSSSSssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Gootz?

Clerk: How much of this one?

Me: Can you just.... oh, half a yard, please.

My son appears and hands me another fat quarter.

Son: Here, Mom.

Me: Buddy....

Son: FFFFFFtttttttSSSSSssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Gootz!!!! Where are you?

Clerk: So the fat quarters, then?

Me: No, we don't....

My son appears with yet another fat quarter.

Son: There you go.

Son: FFFFFFtttttttSSSSSssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Look, I really need to...

Clerk: How much of this one?

Son: Here, Mom!

Me: WAIT!

Clerk: How much of this one?

Son: What, Mom?

Me: What are you doing?!

Son: I'm Rocket Boy. FFFFFFtttttttSSSSSssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: GOOTZ! GET OVER HERE!

Clerk: Ma'am, did you want me to cut this one?

Me: OF COURSE I WANT YOU TO CUT IT! DO YOU THINK I ENDURE THIS KIND OF TORTURE FOR KICKS? WHAT KIND OF SICKO DO YOU THINK I AM?

Clerk: So, half a yard, then?

Me: Yes. Thank you.

Okay, I didn't actually yell at the clerk. But ooooh, I wanted to.

 ~Angela :-)

~Angela :-)

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