I decided the world wasn’t ready for more stories about life in and around our household so I haven’t posted anything in almost a year. Then again maybe I just wanted to keep the hilarity to myself… or I’m lazy.
Information overload has sparked a backlash in my brain. I don’t want to share things anymore because it’s too freaking common. Look at this post. Nothing has been creative or funny at this point, so what is its point? The purpose of something of this nature is to make people laugh or in the least, think and this isn’t doing either.
I’ve gotta tie my shoes so I’ll catch you again sometime… I hope.
Fate tested me and I’m not sure if I passed.
Last night a screaming Mexican delayed my highly anticipated arrival in the boodwah. I’m talking about enchiladas, not Hervé Villechaize *. I won’t get into the details about how I spent my time, but it took a while and it cost me.
After washing my hands, brushing my teeth and scraping my feet I ventured down the hallway to Shangri-la. As I moved closer I could tell something was amiss. The light from the TV didn’t peek out from under the door of the darkened hallway. This could only mean one thing: my wife fell asleep or the satellite was down. Either way, my entertainment for the evening was finished.
I quietly stepped on the squeaky floorboards making sure to hit everyone in its sweet spot hoping not to wake up the dog. I reached out for the door handle and felt… air. It was gone and so was the door. My head rattled from side to side. Something didn’t compute. Was the door open? Is this my house? Is that freaking Mexican knocking at my back door, again? The answers came to me quickly: yes; yes; and not yet. I clumsily reached out into the void and found the door to be at an angle that confirmed my suspicions. It was open. I knew it.
I remained still for a moment to take in my zero visibility. After about ten minutes I closed the door and stumbled toward the bed. I feared for my toes because a laundry basket was in the midst somewhere in the room. I’ve encountered its kind many times before and knew of the carnage that can result from one of my piggies entangling itself in the plastic netting.
I made it to the bed eventually. The telltale sign being the mattress brushing against my thigh. I made it! It felt good to know that I can navigate so well in my dwelling. Utter darkness was no match for me. The following information is only being revealed because it is necessary for the reader to know. I sleep on the outside of the bed. Therefore, by default, my wife sleeps on the inside.
I reached out to make sure the covers were out of the way for me to crawl into bed and my world changed. I touched a hand. A hand very different from my wife’s. It was a different size and not as hairy**. The hand grasped mine and I froze. I wanted to shout or run or cry, but instead I said, “What’s going on in here?” There was silence in the room. It seemed as though the infiltrator feared revealing its identity. Then the words floated through the air like the mist from Niagara Falls on a breezy day; drenching me in a not completely unpleasant way. “Hi, Daddy.”
To many of you this might be a regular occurrence, but it’s a first for my wife and I in our almost six years of parenting. Our son just turned four and decided it was time to share our bed. WTF was he thinking? Well, I’ll tell you. As I carried him back to HIS room he said, “When I get big I’m going to sleep with Mommy and Daddy.” In my uneducated psychological analysis I’ve concluded that he turned four and became a “big” kid and Mommy and Daddy are big and they sleep in the same bed, so he should too. It’s either that or some sort of Oedipus Complex. For sanity sake, I’ll go with the former.
The events that took place last night made me realize that some things in life shouldn’t be taken for granted. Things like alone time with your spouse and night-lights. I just hope that I nipped this nocturnal invasion stuff in the bud. I’d hate to see what would have happened if I wasn’t delayed by the screaming Mexican.
Copyright Linus Mann 2009
*I know he wasn’t Mexican, but I just smile thinking about the little bastard. It’s not my fault that I spent my adolescence in the late seventies and crap like Fantasy Island was shoved down my throat via Saturday night television.
**I’m kidding snookie-pie; it was close to your size.
I’m not much of a dieter so take what I have to say with a (multi-) grain of salt and a pound of sugar.
I took the daughter to BJ’s the other night to do a little bulk shopping because we were down to seventeen rolls of Charmin and two 19.7 oz. boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios at the house so it was obviously time to replenish the shelves in our basement.
We hit a little bump in the road in the beginning of our excursion, as my daughter puked in the parking lot before we went inside. This was kind of odd because our boy’s usually the puker (see Yummy, Blleh, Bbllleeehhh, Yummy), but she’s a trooper and decided to carry on with the mission without any prodding from me. All did seem well when we headed in because her stomach must’ve been empty by the size of the puddle in front of the Lexus’s driver’s door parked next to us.
After the quick cleanup in the men’s room the two of us loaded mass quantities of things we use at the house into the cart. You know, like, four tubes of toothpaste, two huge jugs of refillable anti-bacterial soap, eight tubs of Vaseline, six jars of mayo and an apple. Just things we needed… I thought. I should have brought a list.
I knew that we needed wheat bread so we headed toward that area with high hopes of getting what we needed. No such luck. After pacing back-and-forth between the three bread aisles for about thirty minutes I came to the conclusion that they were out of the butter-top version I usually buy; all that was left was the whole-grain stuff, which I know is good for you, but tastes like a sponge, or cardboard, or something non-food like. You may ask, have you actually tasted it, and the answer would be a resounding YES… I think.
I thought about stopping somewhere else on the way home, but it was almost my little girl’s bedtime and I figured that we could handle whole-grain for once. Let me rephrase that, the kid’s and my wife could handle whole-grain for once so I grabbed a loaf and headed to the checkout.
This short story made long was what brought me to my current state of fear. I discovered yesterday that I didn’t buy the whole-grain loaf; I bought multi-grain instead by accident. I really don’t know anything about multi-grain besides that it smells like PLAY–DOH, but I did read on the package it’s a great source of fiber. This kind of scares me because my kids don’t really need any assistance in the bathroom. Well, not that kind of assistance. If anything, I’d like to curb their output if possible. Even though this stuff went through my mind I fed it to both of them anyway. My son’s eaten it yesterday and today with his jelly and peanut butter and my daughter today only with hers.
The boy has gone dump-less since before his first taste of this flavorless vessel for things you normally put on a sandwich, such as jelly, peanut butter, lunch meat, salmon or cheese, so I’m hoping it isn’t some sort of time-released colon bomb that goes off in 48 hours because I think the load would exceed the maximum capacity of his pull-up. If this faux food affects people differently, my daughter might be in a bind at preschool right now if it hits her just right so I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
It seems to be out of my control so it’s just a waiting game. Hopefully it’s worth the wait.
Because of the lousy weather, the kids don’t even know that today’s special for anything other than Mommy’s not working on a Wednesday. I figured that they’re still a little too young for a history lesson about the founding fathers and fireworks.
The whole George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin and the rest of their merry men story might be a little advanced for an almost-four-year-old and a boy that’s two. They might enjoy the tea party thing, but I didn’t have any costumes on hand and it’s too wet outside to search for feathers for our hair.
As for fireworks, they are a phenomenon that I like to participate in only visually. I like all my fingers and my hearing too much to throw them away with an M-80 or cherry bomb. I have no problem with other people taking the risks as long as they don’t share the flying explosives with my roof or my hair, because both artificial materials ignite easily.
I hope all Americans have a great Independence Day. If you happen to be British and read this, no hard feelings. Just think of it this way; your offspring has really grown into its own.