Smh

Circa 1965, Washington County, Jersey

We started on the road early, ‘cause the misses is under the weather, been up since 10 a.m. the other day, puking her lungs, heart and head out. She said it felt that way, I know I saw it all. Every meal we had for the week, the meatballs, the cheese, the green beans and even corn from two Sundays back. Guess, it took a while to filter through. Smh.

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m wrong for that, but I gotta laugh about something because I felt like a poor sort, unable to render aide to the one I love. Although, she pushed my hand and the cold towel away. Like I was trying to snuff her out or something. But, honestly, I was just there to help. I didn’t know what else to do. Think I saw it in a movie once, something about cold towel helping. Guess, she didn’t see that one to know.

So, we on the road headed home, my childhood one. And I’m not terribly excited to be there, to be honest. Because, my parents the Genes are gonna be doting on Gina like she’s the baby of the house. And everyone knows that’s the kid here, me. But, I gotta keep reminding myself, we gonna have a kid soon, and my limelight is about to go out for good. Mama and Papa are going to spoil him rotten or her, but I’m hoping for a him.

What Johnny wouldn’t give the world to have a son, a little one of me to rule this world?

Gina rolls over complaining about eating, like she’s gonna hold it down this time, though it’s worth a try. But, not in the car, I just vacuumed and cleaned it from the last splatter of vomit about 50 miles back. I can still smell the lingering stench of old, upchuck oatmeal. Glancing down at the speedometer, I wonder how much more can I punch the pedal to get to Mama’s house faster, just so she can eat there, near a bathroom or two. Just as she sits up, I whirl that old Edsel into the driveway on two wheels, coming to a shuddering halt.

“You hungry precious?” I stroke her shoulder, met by a disgruntle smirk.

Before, I can get her, them out of the car, Mama and Papa are coming down the steps to offer aid. How easily they forget that I was even standing there as the doting begins, and I’m left with the suitcases, a devoured ice chest and blankets. Because Gina can’t determine if she’s hot or cold most nights. I might as well be part chameleon, part polar bear for that matter.

Smh.

Of course, Mama is quick to show her pictures of my childhood, every birthday, every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Little League, no league, cried through baseball, broke my arm in hockey, fell in love, skip that page, and so on.

“But, this one,” she taps the page is my favorite one.

I know what she’s thinking without looking up from my second handful of peanuts and a beer chaser with Pop faking in the kitchen, like we’re checking pots.

“Johnny, Johnny, come let’s …”

I know what she’s hinting already, and I’m not having it. Not in front of the misses, Mama, give a guy like me a break.

But she made me stand next to that childhood tree like some hokey Johnny-O. Like I had all the years before when I was kid, and I didn’t care much about nothing but pleasing her to secure all my gifts and toys. Now, here I am again, years later, standing in front of that tree like a boy, but a man with a wife and a kid, my kid, our kid on the way. Just so I can get her appreciation of thank you, ‘oh Johnny, you’re such a good kid.”

Thankfully, I talked Papa outta sitting in his chair next to me, dressed like Santa with me on his knee, cheesing.

Smh, un-bel-lieve-able…

But to be honest, the more I think about it. Shucks. I can’t wait to put my kiddo through the very same thing next Christmas Eve.

How’s dat Mama for memories?