You may think you know, but you have no idea. No idea of the atrocities suffered by the Mansion residents at the hands (and other body parts) of Farmer H.
Yesterday's failed toilet training incident pales in comparison to this latest shocking manifestation of Farmer H's inappropriateness. I normally try to shield The Pony from such blatant breaches of decorum. But a mom can't be everywhere at once. And The Pony did just turn 16. He's going to have to face unpleasantness on his own once he leaves the home paddock. Still, had I only known...
This afternoon, when we returned from The Devil's Playground and put away our weekly supplies, I headed down to my dark basement lair for some quality computer time. In my rush, I forgot my baby-blue sweatshirt. I wear it around the house all the time. Have you heard? We have the thermostat set on 69 degrees. Outerwear or a fleece throw is necessary for comfort. "Pony? I forgot my sweatshirt upstairs on the back of the couch. Could you get it for me?" He trotted up the stairs on his coltish legs, as always, a cheerful helpmate. That is why what happened next surprised the not-heaven out of me.
I left my office to meet him more than halfway. To take the sweatshirt hand-off at the bottom of the steps, so The Pony could get back to whatever computer game he had paused to do my bidding. Apparently, The Pony did not think I would be standing there waiting for him. Instead of the even-tempered, trusty Pony clomping down the stairs, I observed a boy young 'un with a look of revulsion on his face, holding my baby-blue sweatshirt between thumb and forefinger, dangling it at arm's length.
"Am I THAT bad? Why do you treat my sweatshirt like that? I'm your MOM!" I pulled the sweatshirt over my head. "There's nothing wrong with my sweatshirt. That hurts my feelings, to see that you find me so disgusting."
"Um. It's not you. It's the sweatshirt. You didn't see what Dad did to it this morning."
My mind hopped into the way-back machine and stepped out at 8:00 a.m. I had claimed the first shower, and left Farmer H in bed while I commandeered the master bathroom. He was in bed with the covers over his head when I came out. Of course I assumed he'd been there the whole time, catching ten or eleven extra winks. You know what happens when we assume.
"NO! My sweatshirt! Don't tell me he put it over his...his...area!"
"Yeah. He kind of did. He saw me and grabbed it off the back of the couch." The Pony shuddered. He went back to drown his sorrows in a giant Hershey Kiss hunk of Valentine chocolate.
I can only assume that Farmer H got up to use the boys' bathroom at the other end of the house, and did not expect The Pony to be in the living room. No. I won't assume. And I won't ask. Because sometimes, truth is more gorge-rising than assumption.