Yesterday at work my co-worker asked, "Do you wishbone with Junior?"
"Wishbone?" I asked. I made a face. "Wishboning" sounded kinky, like something out of Cosmo's Kama Sutra: 77 Mind Blowing Sex positions book, if one were to own such a book.
I said if.
She reached into her purse and handed me this:
A bag of bones.
They looked like little reindeer antlers. That made me sad and a little nauseous, like there had been a miniature reindeer massacre at her house and she brought me the aftermath. So I could "wishbone" with my toddler.
"Thank you?" I said.
"You have to wishbone with Junior. He'll love it. Do you know how?"
"You each pull an end and whoever gets the longer piece, their wish comes true?" Duh?
"There's a big roaster bone in there."
I went home and emptied the carnage onto my chair.
When Junior came running in I thought, let's do this. Let's see if this is the Norman Rockwell experience my co-worker promised. Maybe instead of reading together at bed time we should have been wishboning. I mean shit, this could be big.
"Pull, Junior! Make a wish!"
When the bone snapped, he was holding the bigger piece.
"What was your wish?" I asked.
"Was that fun, sweetie?"
I'm going to give them a proper burial after all.
R.I.P, little woodland creatures. R.I.P.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.