Sometimes a mother just knows her child is being too quiet. Sitting at the kitchen table, Betsy put down her phone realizing she had just drank a half a cup of coffee while scrolling through social media for nearly twenty minutes without any interruptions. This is not a luxury mothers of small children usually enjoy. Her sixth sense, the one all mother's have, registered a significant transgression had transpired.

"Brian?" she called out to her five-year-old son. No answer. The house remained incomprehensibly quiet. 

She sighed and took a long sip of coffee. It tasted so good and while currently at the perfect temperature, if she attended whatever was awry it would be cold before she returned. Wanting to ignore her instincts and continue her blissful moment of peace she tried to refocus on her phone. If Brian's father Mike were home and Besty were at work Mike certainly wouldn't let his coffee get cold to go investigate. In fact he would never notice the house was too quiet.

Besides what was done was done. If there was paint on the floor or pee somewhere it didn't belong what would a few more minutes of ignorance hurt?

But of course mothers can't ignore the intuition that fathers either don't have or simply don't pay mind to, so Betsy abandoned her coffee and quietly tiptoed to her son's room scanning the house for evidence along the way. 

The living room seemed untouched. The Christmas tree twinkled merrily, and the presents underneath it, a daily temptation to her child, appeared untouched. She walked past the bathroom and peaked in. There were no piles of toilet paper, or emptied toothpaste tubes. The shampoo and conditioner bottles sat in their proper place. 

"Brian?" she softly called out as she pushed the door to his bedroom open. She heard a little movement but again no answer. Guilt hung heavy in the air as Betsy scanned the room.

"Oh, Brian!" she exclaimed. There was no need to ask what happened. The story was all over his face and in front of him floor. He sat on the carpet and looked his mother in the eyes. Several seconds ticked by as mother and son conversed without words. Brian wondering how he would be punished. Betsy trying to decide on her next move. She kept her face serious but unreadable while determining what to say next.

Impulse control is hard when you are five. Although there were still three weeks left before Christmas, Brian's advent calendar lay before him, every window ripped opened by his small nimble fingers. Chocolate ringed his lips. Despite his sugary binge, he looked miserable. 

"You ate them all at once," said Besty in dismay, stating the obvious.

Brian didn't say anything but grabbed his stomach with his hands. Then he vomited all over the floor.