The Yellow Momster

Well, this is awkward.

I stare at my sixteen year old and he stares back, bug-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Mom," he hesitates and licks his dry lips. I remind myself to buy him a tube of Chapstick next time I'm at the store. His Adam's apple bobs up and down. "Why are you wearing a yellow spandex suit?"

I laugh and try to downplay the situation. "Why wouldn't I wear it? Yellow is cool. Think of Dick Tracy or The Man in the Yellow Hat. They're totally awesome!"

He snorts and his arms form a barricade across his broad chest. It strikes me again how quickly my boy is growing into a man.

"You're not planning on going on Safari in that, are you?" His nostrils flare and I'm sure he's imagining me swinging around on vines in the jungle.

"Not without my matching yellow boots," I joke, nudging the pair under my bed with a bare foot.

"Mo-om!" he moans and I fight back a grin. There's my little boy. He might fool others with that newly stubbled chin and a set of muscles that would make *Sentry proud, but underneath it all is my whiny baby boy.

"Da-vid!" I fix my eyes on his baby blues and the staring match commences. After a few seconds I feel the burn but I refuse to blink. I'd been training for this for years. David's jaw clenches and then he's furiously blinking moisture back into his eyes. He sighs and drops his arms.

"You win."

"I always do," I wink and gently elbow him in the ribs.

"Seriously, mom. Why are you wearing that?" Red crawls from his neck to his hairy cheeks. "You can see every bump and bulge."

I raise an eyebrow. "Did you just call the woman who spent twenty-three hours of excruciating labor bringing you into this world, fat?"

He steps away from the heat of my fury. One hand pulls at the collar of his t-shirt and a trickle of sweat slips down the side of his face. I close my eyes and count to ten to control the flames that want to burst from my fingertips. I would have quite the time trying to explain to Thomas how our son had been reduced to a pile of ash on our bedroom floor. After twenty long years of keeping my superpowers secret, I wasn't about to let my anger betray me now.

"I...I just mean it's really tight!" His voice rises into an unmanly squeak. I frown, but my rage has been defused by the familiar look of chagrin on his face. It's the same innocent expression he used as a toddler when his hand was caught in the cookie jar.

"It's just a costume," I finally sigh.

His eyes widen and his pupils dilate. Something about those eyes remind me of someone, but since I can't place my finger on it, I shrug away the eerie feeling.

"Ew, mom! TMI!"

"It's not like that," I snicker.

David cocks his head and squints at me. "Why else would you be wearing a cos-" he trails off and points an accusing finger at my face. "You're the Yellow Momster, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I flash a toothy grin and shake my head, "I'm just a normal, everyday mom." A thread of smoke wafts from my fingers and my son plants his hands on his hips.

"Uh, huh. Then how are you doing that?"

I snuff out the flame glowing on the tip of my index finger.

"Don't tell your dad," I frown.

He bites his lower lip and avoids my eyes. Finally, he looks up and shakes his head.

"We have a problem, mom."

"I know," I agree.

"No...you don't understand." His pupils dilate again. He spits and I'm just about to reprimand him when his hand darts out and the saliva transforms into a miniature icicle.

"Oh, my," I groan, "You're..."

"Iceman," David finishes.

"Which means you're my..."

"Arch-nemesis."

I stare at my sixteen year old and he stares back.

Well, this is awkward.



*Who the Heck is Sentry? ▼

698 words
Sentry is a Marvel Superhero that wears YELLOW. He's super strong and borders on being a bad guy.