By Bethany Christman

My mother’s call to my father went along the lines of “BRUCE, THE BABY IS POOPING BLUE!

This was just a typical fall day; one of the rare days in fall that you can only dream of, and me being my mischievous self, had decided that today was the day to give my mother a heart attack.

I had the privilege of spending the previous day with my father. My dad was enlisted in the Army and was always away on weekends. I was a daddy’s girl. Anything my father did, I wanted to do, anywhere my father went, I wanted to go, and anything my father ate, I wanted to eat. My dad was eating what was soon to be my favorite fruit: blueberries. He did his parental job and introduced me to this magnificent fruit in, of course, a small amount, because that’s all that a baby should have. My dad made the mistake of leaving a pint of blueberries on the table, while he went back to making dinner that night. Being the sneaky and not-knowing-any-better child, I got a hold of these decadent, mouthwatering, delights, and ate every last one.

My father’s mistake was allowing me to have my first blueberry. The mystery is my favorite part because you never know when you are going to eat a pungent sour blueberry or a mushy, gushy, slightly flavorless blueberry. My father never realized that I ate them. He went to the refrigerator and got out the carton he thought he had yet to get out to eat, but he was puzzled by why there was one missing. The next morning he was on base for drills. That day I got to spend with my mom and give her the best gift, a nice and ripe dirty dipper. My dad had figured out what was wrong and how it had happened the moment the words somehow managed to come out of my mother’s mouth.

“That’s where they went.”

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