In our house, don’t spit.
Or so I thought.
The other day I was doing my daily duties, scrubbing, tidying, putting away, folding and changing over laundry, etc., while my four year old followed me around, as usual.
He is always there, telling me how to do my job, letting me know what he wants, giving me updates on what all the pets are up to, and asking a million questions.
This particular day, during a quiet moment as I carried a basket of laundry and he followed in my steps, I heard; “hack-pa-tew'“.
I turned around with my brows furrowed and said; “Did you just spit?”
“Yep!” he replied proudly.
“Ok, that is really acky, we don’t spit in the house, on the floor, you need to wipe it up.”
‘Ok.”
I waited for him to wipe it up with a tissue and we carried on.
I truly thought that was the end of that. I know better than to think that, but I did anyway.
A little later the same day, he was sitting on his stool at the kitchen island, I was at the sink with my back to him and I heard it again; “hack-pa-tew”
I whipped around, and found him with his little fist wrapped in the hem of his shirt and vigorously scrubbing the counter.
“Evan! Did you just spit on the counter?!”
“Yep! It was dirty…but it’s not anymore, I cleaned it off!”
“Ok Ev, we don’t use our spit to clean counters, our spit has acky germs, here, you can clean it with a washcloth.”
“Ok” he chirped, and washed away.
The day went on and we had to run an errand in the car, aaaaaand here we go again, it’s quiet and I hear “hack-pa-tew”
I look in my rearview mirror and exclaim “Evan! Did you just spit in my car?” (The asking is a little redundant on my part. Just making sure I’m not jumping to conclusions ya know, maybe that sound could mean something else…)
“Yep!” “I’m cleaning the window!”
“Ev, we don’t use spit to clean anything, anywhere, EVER, OKAY?”
“Okay’ he says agreeably.
A short time later, we are home, I have full arms and am walking across the front porch with Evan close behind.
And, not kidding, I hear “hack-pa-tew” AGAIN.
I whip around, and giving him the big crazy eyes, say very firmly:
“EVAN (MIDDLE NAME)!! WE DO NOT SPIT!!
He stares back, unperturbed and retorts:
“Dad does.”
Groan. And sigh.
“Ok, you’re right, but dad is a grown man, and too old to train…”
“You are my four year old boy, and you are not allowed to spit anywhere in or near the house, or your mom, no more of that!”
“Ok.” He agreed.
So fast forward to the next Monday when a few kids missed the bus, and I had to run them to school.
The first grade boy is giving me a quick hug and kiss before he gets out of the van, and I notice he has a black permanent marker streak across his forehead.
“Hold on kid, let me clean that marker off your head.”
And I scrounge around the front of the van until I find a pack of wipes.
And as it would be, the bag was left open and the last little pile of wipes are completely dried out.
And my water bottle is empty. It is Monday after all.
So there I was, parked in front of school, spitting on a wet wipe and using it to clean my kid’s forehead.
While the four year old watched it all, and he never said a word.