Who wants to wake up in the smell of hot cocoa every morning? Us! because we live behind the factory of Ricoa—yes, the maker of Flat Tops. It’s like mom mixing in a cauldron brimming of that chocolatey goody in a Christmas morning.
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A couple of days ago, Bryce wasn’t like himself—more like a person carrying a worldly burden. Little big thing, it was. He kept asking to wash his butt while there was none to wash when I checked. It turned out that he couldn’t win over pushing out the brown monster in his tummy for two days already. On the third night, we saw him standing motionless at the living room—his face grueling internally. He succeeded giving birth to a poop the size of a grenade. Drink more water, kid.
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Last night, Jaycelle and Bryce got home from a sewing workshop wherein Bryce luckily had a four–year old playmate. He was sleepy when I opened the door—slumped over Jaycelle’s shoulder. I took him and sat him down the sofa, eyes wide awake yet still sleepy. Then it happened. He threw a fit wanting “daddy–yon” (polvoron) then milk and orange. We explained to him that we only had grapefruit but he insisted to cut it open. He ended up not eating it. It was his wildest delirium to date—shouting and bawling and commanding us to do and not to do every little detail. Beyond all this we knew he was simply caught up in the middle of sleepiness and playtime withdrawal. You know that feeling when you just had the best day of your life only to deal with the reality of going home. Jaycelle and I got to the finish line without losing any of our patience. Good job, mom and dad!
