Splish Splosh Diet Lemonade
A True Theo Story
It's Friday pick-up time and Theo storms out the classroom brandishing a full two liter bottle of lemonade. He thrusts it at me with a 'Here! I won this! We can have it for dinner! Can you carry it?' 'Hello,' I reply, 'You've won... what? A two-liter bottle of DIET lemonade that for the life of me I wouldn't ever buy you, much less drink or expect you to WIN at SCHOOL on a regular Friday afternoon? HOW did that happen? WHY did that happen? Whatever happened to winning pencils or stickers? I don't want to carry that, much less drink or see you drink it! YOU carry it!' He huffs and puffs and between huffs and puffs I learn that a game of throwing stuff at the bottle and hitting it, the bottle was won. I still don't understand the part about throwing stuff and winning lemonade at school, but I do understand a little bit about a bottle of fizzy stuff being thrown about, so on second thought agree to carefully carry the bottle home.
Because it's Friday, Daddy is home and has locked himself in the bathroom upstairs. Theo claims his prize back and runs up the stairs. I can hear him shouting through the door about his feat of throwing stuff and winning stuff, but he won't make it easy for daddy: 'Guess what it is that I've won! I'm going to drop it on the floor so you can guess from the sound it makes!' THUMP goes the bottle of lemonade. 'You can't guess it from this sound? Let me do that again!' THUMP goes the bottle on the floor. 'Stop it! Stop that now! Leave daddy be! It's lemonade! You won't be able to drink that stuff now!' I shout from downstairs. 'Stop dropping it! You won't be able to have it now!' comes the voice from the other side of the bathroom door. But 'YES! Yes! We WILL drink this for dinner!' protests the boy. And next, by means as mysterious as the winning itself, the bottle comes tumbling down the stairs. THUMP THUMP THUMP it goes before it comes to rest at the front door.
'Well.' I say. 'Now you really can forget about having it.'
'Noooooo!' cries the boy.
'OK,' I say, taking pity. 'Let me show you why you can't drink it now and prove to you that we're not being unreasonably cruel and mean about this lemonade at our dinner table.' I open the door. I shall demonstrate what happens to lemonade that has gone 'thump', 'thump' and 'thump thump thump'. I have visions of champagne shooting from glass bottles in one controlled and triumphant arc. One teensy step outside the front door I unscrew the bottle lid. It never makes it off the bottle as the lemonade squirts out and umbrellas back all over me, Theo, the door, the entrance, the porch, the floor and all else that unwisely presents itself behind the bottle.
Controlled and triumphant, my arse.
On the plus side, only about a third of the lemonade was lost to my parental scientific endeavours, and now NOTHING can get in between the boy and the lemonade at the dinner table. He offers everybody. 'Yes, please', says his older sister. 'MANY thanks but no, thanks', say the baby and his parents, 'What about you?'
'I don't like lemonade,' Theo reminds us. Then he has a glass of water.
It's Friday pick-up time and Theo storms out the classroom brandishing a full two liter bottle of lemonade. He thrusts it at me with a 'Here! I won this! We can have it for dinner! Can you carry it?' 'Hello,' I reply, 'You've won... what? A two-liter bottle of DIET lemonade that for the life of me I wouldn't ever buy you, much less drink or expect you to WIN at SCHOOL on a regular Friday afternoon? HOW did that happen? WHY did that happen? Whatever happened to winning pencils or stickers? I don't want to carry that, much less drink or see you drink it! YOU carry it!' He huffs and puffs and between huffs and puffs I learn that a game of throwing stuff at the bottle and hitting it, the bottle was won. I still don't understand the part about throwing stuff and winning lemonade at school, but I do understand a little bit about a bottle of fizzy stuff being thrown about, so on second thought agree to carefully carry the bottle home.
Because it's Friday, Daddy is home and has locked himself in the bathroom upstairs. Theo claims his prize back and runs up the stairs. I can hear him shouting through the door about his feat of throwing stuff and winning stuff, but he won't make it easy for daddy: 'Guess what it is that I've won! I'm going to drop it on the floor so you can guess from the sound it makes!' THUMP goes the bottle of lemonade. 'You can't guess it from this sound? Let me do that again!' THUMP goes the bottle on the floor. 'Stop it! Stop that now! Leave daddy be! It's lemonade! You won't be able to drink that stuff now!' I shout from downstairs. 'Stop dropping it! You won't be able to have it now!' comes the voice from the other side of the bathroom door. But 'YES! Yes! We WILL drink this for dinner!' protests the boy. And next, by means as mysterious as the winning itself, the bottle comes tumbling down the stairs. THUMP THUMP THUMP it goes before it comes to rest at the front door.
'Well.' I say. 'Now you really can forget about having it.'
'Noooooo!' cries the boy.
'OK,' I say, taking pity. 'Let me show you why you can't drink it now and prove to you that we're not being unreasonably cruel and mean about this lemonade at our dinner table.' I open the door. I shall demonstrate what happens to lemonade that has gone 'thump', 'thump' and 'thump thump thump'. I have visions of champagne shooting from glass bottles in one controlled and triumphant arc. One teensy step outside the front door I unscrew the bottle lid. It never makes it off the bottle as the lemonade squirts out and umbrellas back all over me, Theo, the door, the entrance, the porch, the floor and all else that unwisely presents itself behind the bottle.
Controlled and triumphant, my arse.
On the plus side, only about a third of the lemonade was lost to my parental scientific endeavours, and now NOTHING can get in between the boy and the lemonade at the dinner table. He offers everybody. 'Yes, please', says his older sister. 'MANY thanks but no, thanks', say the baby and his parents, 'What about you?'
'I don't like lemonade,' Theo reminds us. Then he has a glass of water.
***
***
If I could do this afternoon over, I would not fail to recognise the caveman-brought-prey-for-family in my seven-year-old. It was everywhere: In the initial huff-and-puff, the strut, the pride, the crowing to the older male, the caring offer extended to the whole family. I would not have turned down my offer of a glass - in fact, I would most probably have developed enough enthusiasm for diet lemonade to drink the whole two liters with gusto... Although without the left over lemonade, the 'magic potions' they made a few days later would not have turned out half as sweet as they did!
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