Dear Awesome Advice Central,
Thirty-eight years, 5 kids, 13 grand-kids and 2 great grand-babies on the way, and my husband and I still can’t get enough of each other.
We’re like that couple in that movie, the one where if the cowboy hat is on the doorknob, don’t come a-knockin’! Our kids are strangely prudish about this, especially when my husband buys me a new cowboy hat each Christmas.
“The old one just wore out,” he always jokes to them. They never laugh. I don’t know, they just don’t seem to have a sense of humour.
Anyway, I told you that so I could tell you this: last month, our eldest son (the one who apparently thinks babies come from the cabbage patch because he looks pained whenever his father and I even hold hands) invited us to stay over the weekend.
We packed our nightclothes, some toys for the grand-kiddies, our cowboy hat, and a brand new 32-ounce jar of Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!!! Lubricating sex jelly. We’re like the Guides: always prepared.
Our darling son and his wife went out the first afternoon, the grand-babes were taking a nap, so husband and I put the hat on the door and began doing what nature intended us to do.
After making ourselves comfortable on the new hide-a-bed, I reached over and grabbed the lube. It was really difficult to open. I twisted, pulled, cajoled and begged, but the damn lid just wouldn’t come off. Finally, I felt it give a little, so I twisted with gusto.
Unfortunately, when the lid finally popped off, the lube exploded all over us.
Thirty-two ounces of silicone, strawberry/mango-flavoured, Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!!! lube landed in our hair, on the carpet, on the painting beside the window, on the robin’s eggs in the nest in the tree outside the window…but worst of all…most of it landed on my son’s brand new hide-a-bed.
A huge splodge, the size of a small dog. Bright red in colour and soaking quickly into the all-white sofa covers. My husband and I looked at one another, almost naked and wide-eyed, and did what any normal couple would do: we panicked.
We knew our son wouldn’t like this, and most certainly wouldn’t find it as funny as we did.
We started mopping up, using our clothes to scoop up the quickly melting gel. Husband tried rubbing it off the cover, but that just made things worse. We were like teenagers, giggling hysterically, me in my undies and him in his sleeping mask, whisper-screaming at each other to fix things fast, before our parents…that is, the kids got home.
I grabbed a shirt and jeans, threw them on, and ran down to the laundry to get a towel. As luck would have it, it was white, but I didn’t care by this point. We needed to save that sofa. We could always hide the towel, throw it away, buy a new one. We just did NOT CARE about the towel. The sofa was the important thing here.
I was going over and over in my head, how to explain what had happened: “Well, son, Dad had made me some strawberry mango jello, and while eating it, I dropped the entire bowl on the sofa. Oops! Clumsy me! Oh, that jello on the ceiling? Wow, it sure does bounce high, doesn’t it? heh heh…” and so forth.
No. We’d have to fix this properly. I motioned to my husband, who by this time had removed the sleeping mask so he could see properly, to get off the sofa so I could put the towel down.
As I was doing this, in barged our delightful little granddaughter, Rosebud. She came to a stop when she saw me, leaning over the sofa with the towel, and Grandpa (who’d quickly put on my frilly bath robe when he heard the doorknob turn), standing there, looking furtive.
“Whatcha doin’, Gwandmama?” she asked.
Oh! um, well, Grandpa spilled, um…Grandmama dropped…well, you see, dear, when a man and a woman….
Little Rosebud jumped on the towel, which settled firmly onto the lube spot, and said, “Come on, Gwandmama, Gwandpa! Sit wif me! Wet’s pway!! Tel me a stowy, ‘kay? Whatchoo bwing me? You bwing me a pwessent?”
So we sat with her, husband in my robe, me in my jeans and shirt, on top of the huge red mess we’d just accidentally made. I admit that while reading to our little moppet, I was pressing down hard on the towel, hoping to sop up any liquids left behind. I’m sure husband was doing the same thing—he had a pretty intense look on his face, that’s for sure.
An hour later, little Rosebud finally left the room. Husband and I looked at each other across the sofa, and felt, I admit it, kind of excited at the mess we’d gotten ourselves into. He reached for me, I reached for him, and the next thing you know, I was struggling with the jar again.
Original image: Candida Performa, via Wikimedia Commons
So this is my problem, because actually we do have one: we couldn’t remove the stain. We offered to pay for new sofa covers, we offered to buy new towels.
Son asked why we’d do that, as it was obviously Rosebud’s fault for eating her strawberry and mango pudding pops in our room before we arrived. He was surprised that we hadn’t noticed when we came in, he said, with a shake of his head.
Er, okay, son, we said. Somehow, we’d managed to get away with this.
Until tonight, when I was on the phone with my son and he told me he’d punished Rosebud for making such a mess, and was taking away her iPad and cartoon privileges for the week, as punishment.
Now I feel guilty. I want to tell him the truth, but I’m not sure he’d accept us in his house again if he knew what had really happened.
Also, at some point he’s going to notice the broken swivel table and the crushed bean bag chair. I’m sure he’ll figure out that damage wasn’t caused by Rosebud, and then our goose will be cooked.
How can we help our darling Rosebud? What lie can we tell our son so he won’t be angry? Or at least, not too angry?
Hanging up our hats till you reply,
Gwandmama and Gwandpa Dear Gwandparents,
How old did you say you were again? And you still like to engage in gland-to-gland combat? We’re horrified!
Okay, no we’re not. Good for you, we say.
And quite honestly, your son needs to get over his prudishness, because one day he, too, will reach the advanced age of 58, and he might well wish to enjoy a little slap and tickle with his wife, and how will he like it if little Rosebud (who will not be so little any longer) frowns and says, “But Daddy, do you and Mummy weally do dat? Dat’s gwoss, Daddy!”
We think it might be time to sit Sonny Boy down for a heart-to-heart. If you like, you may read him the above paragraph. And if he gives you any guff, send him over to us, and we’ll set him straight. Trust us, he’d prefer to hear this from you.
Awesome Advice Central