I'm sure the #1 son loves me, in his own peculiar way, though he disguises it well with palpable disgust, ridicule, and vitriol. If he didn't, would he make such an effort to be where I am every minute of the day? I think not.
Does he not choose late night to run on the basement treadmill while I am watching TV in my blue recliner?
The minute I want to take a shower, he arises and dashes into his own Blues hockey-themed bathroom for a 30-minute spraying. Even though he had a shower right before bed. Our hot water heater was not made to keep that boy so clean. Thank the Gummi Mary, I can be in and out of my own shower in 7 minutes, before the heat starts to wane.
During the two minutes I spend at the kitchen sink scrunching water into The Pony's mop of curls in preparation for a trip to town, #1 MUST fill a cup with water for tea.
Paying bills or making a shopping list? Time for him to plop on a living room couch to chat, in the guise of covering his face with a pillow so I won't talk to him. Sure. Like he's going to nap, after being awake for 30 minutes since arising from his 10-hour night of ZZZZs.
Then there's the moment I put my Bubba Cup under Frig's ice-dispenser, when #1 must dart in front and cup his hands over my plastic jug, capturing prime cubes to dump into his blue solo cup filled with red Cherry Limeade, filled to the point that I tell him, "It's going to overflow, that's too much ice," right before it overflows and he grabs a paper towel to mop up the stain. Perhaps it was rude of me to deem him a waste of natural resources. But a woman can only take so much.
Oh, and just because I think I need to fill my Bubba Cup of ice with cold well water from the faucet does not mean that my mission will be possible. Because just as I move toward the sink with the already-running water, a gaping maw appears, attached to the face of one #1 Hillbilly, to guzzle his fill before I get mine.
Comfortably ensconced in my dark basement lair, firing up my New Delly, I hear movement just outside my doorjamb. My door is always open, you know, because there IS NO DOOR. Yep. #1 is puttering around at his photo printer and desktop.
Thank the Gummi Mary, nobody bothers me while I'm washing the dishes by hand while preparing supper. Oh, wait! Yes they do. #1 must run cold water into my hot sink so he can fill a solo cup rather than sip from the stream this time.
But it's not over! In the midst of stirring beans with black-eyed peas, and flipping hamburgers, and ripping lettuce for a salad...the invasive #1 simply MUST throw two slices of pepperoni pizza in the microwave above the stove. AND clamor that somebody took his garlic sauce, which I had thoughtfully placed on the stovetop to warm.
Yeah. That's only a 24-hour sequence.
I'm sure #1 loves me, in his own undemonstrative way. I'm sure.