Here is what I know. It was bad for dad for a while until he made some changes to his diet and it seemed to improve. It was awful for mom throughout pregnancy and has stuck around for the aftermath, at least to some extent. It seems to happen when they eat spicy or acidy foods, and yet they don’t stop eating spicy foods. Lasagna. Enchiladas. Pizza. These are all things I can smell in all of their deliciousness, and I always know what is coming.
Heartburn. Discomfort that makes one (or both) of them irritable, uncomfortable and upset. Whenever it happens, I fight the urge to say I told you so. That, and I have no way of actually saying such a thing to them. Because my doggie mind definitely understands the concept behind cause and effect. Stimulus and response. Behavior and treat. Or, in the case of heartburn, the opposite of a treat.
Except for times like tonight when heartburn leads to happy things. Tonight dad’s heartburn prompted a family car ride to get ice cream. Which is funny because I’ve heard there is no scientific proof that dairy does any good to help heartburn. But tonight I was reminded it doesn’t have to.
Because I think the car ride did the trick itself. My people would tell you I’m mad (which, let’s face it, I was when I didn’t get even a sample of the deliciousness). I would argue I’m logical. It’s happened before and it happened again today. Cause and effect. Which is ironic since I don’t really understand the concept of heartburn other than what comes after the cause and effect.
It’s not the worst thing when they both get heartburn bad enough to merit such a trip. I wish no pain for them (ever), and yet I always get excited when they have an especially acidy or spicy meal. I know what’s coming. Sure, it isn’t always a car ride to get ice cream, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s the idea, the memory, the tradition, that brings me joy. From the ground up, that is heart burn to me. I know I’ve got it all wrong, but I don’t care. Don’t go breaking my heart. Because this heart loves to burn.