Friday, August 7, 2009
Tell me how it is my son can see a popsicle in the freezer without even opening the door. He will find it despite it being buried under several layers of freezer rubble. Under last Easter's ham bone. Behind the package of pierogies I have no recollection of buying. Have no fear, Little Lost Popsicle, my son will come to your rescue; he is the St. Bernard of freezer treats.
Send him in the very same freezer for a package of chicken -- which I describe in advance, to a tee -- and all hope is lost within seconds. In fact, I must subconsciously know this even before I send him in. That's why I painstakingly describe it. The size of the package. The color on the wrapping. Its approximate location -- top shelf right of center. Everything. Yet nothing.
And then I'm left to find it myself. Not an easy task with steam coming out of my ears and various newly-dislodged frozen packages falling on my feet. Yet, there it is. Pretty much right on top, looking just how I said it would.
But you wait and see . . . he will ask for a popsicle later on tonight. I will tell him we don't have any. He'll politely ask if he may look for one anyway. And, lo and behold, he will find one -- all on his own, without my directions, without a description, without any empowering pep talks or lectures on not giving up. He'll dig, he'll persevere, and he will prevail. He will find that popsicle.
Maybe I need to start storing my frozen chicken in popsicle boxes.