And He Wasn’t Even Out In the Yard Eating Weeds…

Poor, poor Pony! He was feeling a bit under the weather Wednesday morning. But in his way, The Pony does not mention such information to one who might be concerned about him. Namely one Val (Mom) Thevictorian.

Let the record show that The Pony started taking some new medicine in September. He takes it in the morning, before school. I am always asking if he took it, and if he made sure to eat something with it. The instructions say that it can be taken with or without food. But better safe than sorry, says Val. This morning, The Pony said he ate something.

“What? What did you have with your pill?” hollered Val down the basement stairs.

“Just…something. Something chocolate that I had down here.”

“That’s not a proper breakfast! You need a Little Debbie brownie or something.”

“I’m fine.”

On the way out the door, The Pony reached into the pantry for a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie. Yet he was as disappointed as Old Mother Hubbard’s dog when he pulled out an empty box. Let the record show that The Pony is the only one who eats Little Debbies. So he must inform the list-maker when he runs out, or none will be boughten on the weekly shopping trip.

Once in T-Hoe, I offered him the Nature Valley Granola Bar I had carried out of my classroom the day before, and not eaten on the way home. The Pony took it. I heard it open. I could even hear him crunching. Those Nature Valley bars ain’t foolin’. They’re hard-core hard. Like cedar shingles.

Almost to school, driving by the park, The Pony, who doesn’t ask for much, said

“Mom? Do you think we can hurry up and get to school? I feel kind of sick.”

Let the record show that Val does not lollygag on the way to work. She drives the speed limit. Especially in school town, a well-known speed trap, where Mrs. Thevictorian has been stopped twice over the years, both after school, by two different patrolmen, on two different streets, and given a warning about the speed limit, which she was exceeding by five miles per hour. Uh huh. It’s not like Val was drag racing or driving fast and furiously.

“I don’t know, Pony. I’m already going 30. The speed limit is 30, you know. I’ll try. Hold your head out the window if you need to. Or I can pull over.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to quit talking now. To hold it in.”

So there I was, racing at 30 mph to get my Pony to school. I went past the park, around past the old burned-up restaurant by the creek, past the convenience store and carwash and Dollar Store, up the hill, past the turn off to the middle school, down the hill by the old daycare, where I crept up to 35 mph while coasting, and started up the hill that would take us to the school parking lot.

YIKES!

There sat a patrolman beside the road.

“Great! That guy has not sat there for two months, and the day I’m rushing my sick Pony to school, there he is! Good thing I jammed on the brakes as soon as I saw him!”

We neared the summit. Stopped at the stop sign. Went past to make our left turn onto the parking lot. The Pony had his window down, head out. The temperature was 23 degrees.

“Do you want me to let you out right here? Before I back in?”

“I think that would be best.”

I unlocked The Pony’s door. He hopped out and headed for the grassy area at our end of the building. I pulled down and back up, into my spot. I turned to see The Pony on his hands and knees like a dog, vomit churning from his mouth.

He walked back to the car.

“Here. Do you want this bottle of water I had in here from yesterday?”

“Uh huh. I think I will just keep it with me. I don’t think you want it back.”

“You’re right.”

The Pony took a small bag of Lay’s Potato Chips with him as well, and went on to class. He picked up his lunch at 11:00, but told me after school that he didn’t eat anything but his Cheetos. The chicken strip was still in his lunch bag. I told him Juno would love it when we got home.

Out the end door we went to get in T-Hoe and drive home.

“I wonder if your vomit is still there. I saw a white truck out here most of the morning. I don’t know what they were doing. Something out front with a big saw, like digging a trench for a gas line.”

“I KNOW! I saw that truck on my way down here to class, and I felt bad for whoever had to see my vomit. Look. It’s still there.”

“I don’t need to look. I thought sure a dog would wonder by and eat it while we were in school.”

“You know what I hate? I hate how, on cold mornings like today, the vomit steams as it exits your mouth.”

“STOP! I’m about to get down on my hands and knees like a dog.”

“Sorry. Can you tell I’m feeling better?”

Yeah. I think I could.