“And, Mom?” Evan continues describing his day to us at dinner. “I need to tell you something.”
Jennifer and I exchange a parental glance.
“Never mind,” he says, “No I don’t.”
“What?” we ask like a Greek chorus.
“Nothing.”
“OK?” I say, raising my eyebrows and my tone.
“Evan,” Jenn frowns, “you have to tell us now.”
“No. That’s OK. I don’t need to tell you after all.”
“I think you do,” Jenn tells him.
“Well, today, I threw up.”
“What?” I ask.
“On the playground,” he continues.
“Uh huh,” Jenn nods her head.
“But I didn’t tell anybody, because then I would have to stop playing,” he bows his head in a six-year-old apology.
“Evan,” his mom tells him. “We’re not going to be angry that you’re sick. But you should tell somebody if you’re not feeling well.”
“And you know what’s kind of weird?” he asks us. “There was a noodle in it, and it was orange. Funny, huh?”
I have thrown up too many times without telling his mother or mine for fear I’d have to stop playing to stand in judgment.