So there I was, stomping around the house doing my usual mini-tantrum that my wife has grown to love so much.
Whenever things start to bug me at the house, I do this without even realizing it. Most of the time, the things that bug me are so insignificant that I know I will not get anyone agreeing with me that it is an issue of comparable importance to curing diseases. The main example of this: shoes.
To me, shoes belong in the closet. Paired neatly together. Perhaps even on a little shoe shelf. And the laces should be removed and braided together and then twisted into a dreamcatcher that will hang in the closet. OK, maybe not that far.
But I think it is completely reasonable to suggest that the shoes go in the closet so that every morning I do not have to go on a hunt for three different pairs of shoes (mine, of course, were easy to retrieve since they were right there in the closet). And I also would not have to justify my accidentally bringing my son to school wearing two different kinds of shoes by saying, “Well, he wanted to wear a left Thomas the Tank shoe and a right Buzz Lightyear shoe. He has a matching pair at home.”
So every so often I start on my little shoe crusade. A shoesade, if you will. I usually start with Allie. “Allie, if you just put your shoes in your closet each night, you’ll know where to find them,” I explain. “But, Daddy,” she says, “you always find my shoes in the morning.”
“Yeah, but,” I explain, “I don’t WANT to find your shoes in the morning. I want to drink coffee and read the paper and watch the Today show and wonder if all those millions of dollars make Katie Couric’s career splat worth it.”
“Katie who?” she says.
It’s a lost cause.
I know my wife and I won’t sway each other’s opinions on this matter, as we are on fundamentally different ends of the shoe spectrum. I never go around barefoot. It’s not some sort of neurotic issue or anything. I just prefer keeping my shoes on. (I actually shower wearing hiking boots.) My wife, meanwhile, thinks the upstairs is no place for shoes. “I can’t STAND wearing shoes upstairs,” she tells me.
But we agreed to compromise a while back in an effort to reduce my mini-tantrums. At the door where we usually enter the house, there would be a basket. The shoe bin. That’s where the shoes would live when they entered and peeled off their shoes so they could go upstairs.
The idea sounded like it might have merit. At the very least, each morning I would not have to go sprinting from room to room. Rather, I could focus my shoe hunt in the bin o’ shoes. I am sorry to report that the shoe basket, while established with the best of intentions, now ranks right behind the stomach flu on my list of things I most enjoy. I often say awful, intentionally hurtful things to the shoe bin.
The shoe bin has turned into this shoe burial ground, where dozens of shoes — many of which I have never seen — end up in a final resting place. I have yet to retrieve a shoe from there that my kids could actually wear to school. I know you are probably asking why I don’t just throw out the shoes. The reason? Because I have an idea whose shoes they are. They could be dress-up play shoes. They could have been from a friend who left them over. They could be shoes that the kids will grow into. I simply do not know.
And where, meanwhile, are the kids’ shoes they need for school? Let’s see — under the couch, on the ceiling fan, behind the TV. Pretty much anywhere that is not a closet. My wife, meanwhile, offers such helpful suggestions as, “Did you check the shoe bin?”
So the fact is the addition of the shoe bin not only did not correct the problem but made it worse, as the original problem still existed, but now we had a clearinghouse for mystery shoes. My wife suggested we get a shoe bin for the shoe bin. I think she was just doing this to be mean.
Perhaps I simply need to come to grips with the fact that the shoe war will never be won by me. When it comes to being obsessive about putting shoes in the same place, I lose 3-1 every time. More power to them, I guess, for not stressing over something as insignificant as where your shoes sit. Perhaps I should just take a deep breath and cast aside my worries about where I put my shoes. I mean, do I REALLY have to have my shoes in the same place all the time?
Yes. Yes, I do. And don’t move my shower boots.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
The plane truth
I’m sure most of you read a few weeks back about the Massachusetts couple that was kicked off of an airplane because their toddler was throwing a tantrum before takeoff, delaying the pilots from getting the plane in the air.
I wasn’t on the plane, so I couldn’t tell you a thing about the parents. But I was quite amused at some of the reactions I encountered. First, a friend of mine (whose wife is expecting their first child), offered this:
“If they had spent the prep time necessary to explain to their child what was required when they set foot on the airplane, none of this would have happened.”
I will now pause for everyone who has ever parented a toddler to let the laughter subside and then catch your breath.
Yes, you can sit down and reason with your toddler. You can explain to them what is expected of them. And they will have this moment where they look up at your, make eye contact, and stick a Cheez-It in their nose. That is how small children operate. The logic function is not fully developed, and therefore reasoning with them is akin to reasoning with your dog or your sofa. In fact, it’s a well-documented scientific fact that the reasoning part of the brain does not begin working until well into a person’s 20s.
I know what my friend is thinking, as I was guilty of it, too. Most everyone goes through this right before they become parents. You thought, “Well, my child will never...” and “I will NOT allow...” And you get a little agitated when your parent friends snicker and giggle and say, “OK, whatever... ”
And meanwhile you, not quite a parent but ready for the challenge, know that they are idiots. Bad parents. Unable to discipline. And then, a few years later, there you are, giggling away as a friend guarantees you that his baby will NEVER go around the house with nothing but a diaper. On his head.
Another comment I read was in an online sports column. The author said: “Not everyone in the restaurant thinks it’s cute when little Tommy bangs on the table because you haven’t taught him the word ‘no.’”
Clearly, this person either does not have kids or does not ever venture to a restaurant with them.
Now I know that some of you out there are tsk-tsking me, saying that kids today just don’t behave like they should, and parents let children get away with murder – sometimes ACTUAL murder, right there at the buffet line. Well, you may be right, on some occasions. Some people are about as good at being a parent as they are being a mockingbird (which, I think we can all agree, is not something many people are good at being).
But next time you are in a restaurant and said Tommy is banging away on the table, do me a favor: Take your laser beam glare off the toddler for just a second and cut the eyes over to the parents. Sure, some will be ignoring or even laughing. But more often than not, you will see a father trying desperately to distract the kid with the salsa dip puppet show, or mom shushing over and over to the point you can actually see a migraine forming in her head. Try as parents might, there is just no way to determine when the Intense Toddler Mode switch will get triggered.
Look, I know that it’s not a delight to be trapped on a plane or in a restaurant with a misbehaving kid. The one time I was on a plane with my kids, the plane was struck by lightning while still on the tarmac, and we were stranded on the plane for several hours. My son, who was two at the time, hung in there for awhile. But there was just so much he could take. I could tell by the looks I was getting that several of the people on the plane thought I had as much business parenting as I did flying the plane. What they did not know was that I would have loved nothing more than to have my son NOT be ragingly upset and simply relaxed and calm. A flight attendant came back to where we were, and I thought at first she was going to suggest Parker and I step out of the plane into the torrential thunderstorm. Instead, she told me she was checking on me and seeing if I was OK. I told her that I was fine, and very sorry about my unhappy son, as it was clearly bothering the other passengers. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They can buy headphones.” She is and will also be the world’s greatest flight attendant.
As I stated before, I was not on the plane when the couple got booted, so they may have been high-fiving, taking pictures, sharing with other passengers stories about their children’s first bathroom experience, etc. It may have been for their own safety that they were removed from the plane. But there is also a distinct possibility that the parents were doing everything within their power to make their child behave, but that it’s sometimes just out of the realm of possibility. I’m not saying you have to like it. I’m just saying sometimes, you buy a pair of headsets and drown out their horror.
Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can always sit back, relax and enjoy the salsa puppet show.
I wasn’t on the plane, so I couldn’t tell you a thing about the parents. But I was quite amused at some of the reactions I encountered. First, a friend of mine (whose wife is expecting their first child), offered this:
“If they had spent the prep time necessary to explain to their child what was required when they set foot on the airplane, none of this would have happened.”
I will now pause for everyone who has ever parented a toddler to let the laughter subside and then catch your breath.
Yes, you can sit down and reason with your toddler. You can explain to them what is expected of them. And they will have this moment where they look up at your, make eye contact, and stick a Cheez-It in their nose. That is how small children operate. The logic function is not fully developed, and therefore reasoning with them is akin to reasoning with your dog or your sofa. In fact, it’s a well-documented scientific fact that the reasoning part of the brain does not begin working until well into a person’s 20s.
I know what my friend is thinking, as I was guilty of it, too. Most everyone goes through this right before they become parents. You thought, “Well, my child will never...” and “I will NOT allow...” And you get a little agitated when your parent friends snicker and giggle and say, “OK, whatever... ”
And meanwhile you, not quite a parent but ready for the challenge, know that they are idiots. Bad parents. Unable to discipline. And then, a few years later, there you are, giggling away as a friend guarantees you that his baby will NEVER go around the house with nothing but a diaper. On his head.
Another comment I read was in an online sports column. The author said: “Not everyone in the restaurant thinks it’s cute when little Tommy bangs on the table because you haven’t taught him the word ‘no.’”
Clearly, this person either does not have kids or does not ever venture to a restaurant with them.
Now I know that some of you out there are tsk-tsking me, saying that kids today just don’t behave like they should, and parents let children get away with murder – sometimes ACTUAL murder, right there at the buffet line. Well, you may be right, on some occasions. Some people are about as good at being a parent as they are being a mockingbird (which, I think we can all agree, is not something many people are good at being).
But next time you are in a restaurant and said Tommy is banging away on the table, do me a favor: Take your laser beam glare off the toddler for just a second and cut the eyes over to the parents. Sure, some will be ignoring or even laughing. But more often than not, you will see a father trying desperately to distract the kid with the salsa dip puppet show, or mom shushing over and over to the point you can actually see a migraine forming in her head. Try as parents might, there is just no way to determine when the Intense Toddler Mode switch will get triggered.
Look, I know that it’s not a delight to be trapped on a plane or in a restaurant with a misbehaving kid. The one time I was on a plane with my kids, the plane was struck by lightning while still on the tarmac, and we were stranded on the plane for several hours. My son, who was two at the time, hung in there for awhile. But there was just so much he could take. I could tell by the looks I was getting that several of the people on the plane thought I had as much business parenting as I did flying the plane. What they did not know was that I would have loved nothing more than to have my son NOT be ragingly upset and simply relaxed and calm. A flight attendant came back to where we were, and I thought at first she was going to suggest Parker and I step out of the plane into the torrential thunderstorm. Instead, she told me she was checking on me and seeing if I was OK. I told her that I was fine, and very sorry about my unhappy son, as it was clearly bothering the other passengers. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They can buy headphones.” She is and will also be the world’s greatest flight attendant.
As I stated before, I was not on the plane when the couple got booted, so they may have been high-fiving, taking pictures, sharing with other passengers stories about their children’s first bathroom experience, etc. It may have been for their own safety that they were removed from the plane. But there is also a distinct possibility that the parents were doing everything within their power to make their child behave, but that it’s sometimes just out of the realm of possibility. I’m not saying you have to like it. I’m just saying sometimes, you buy a pair of headsets and drown out their horror.
Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can always sit back, relax and enjoy the salsa puppet show.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Payback time
It’s payback time.
For six years I have endured it. I have held back. I have not fought it. But I don’t have to wait any longer.
I have two brand new nephews, and you know what that means – It’s time to buy drum sets.
Yes, my three sisters have enjoyed vying for the title of “fun aunt” since my children have been born. Candy for dinner? Sure! Bounce on the couch? Why not! Impromptu dog saddle? Let’s try it!
Oh, but it is now my turn. Samuel was born Nov. 17, and Nicholas joined us on Feb. 1. I am wringing my hands over the tough decisions an uncle has – who gets the bugle and who gets the fire truck with realistic sirens that you cannot turn off?
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking I’m being petty and spiteful and looking to get back at my sisters for years of spoiling my kids. To that I say: You are correct.
But it’s not just the revenge factor that it is so appealing. I am excited about finally getting to be fun uncle. I have fun with my kids, sure, but at the end of the day, I still have to do the dad stuff. I have to do bath time, make lunches, ask Parker to let the dog out of the trash can, etc.
The kids are very excited as well. As a 6-year-old, Allie is very caring and nurturing. She really wants to hold the babies and help feed them and such. (She has made it plainly clear that Samuel and Nicholas’ mommies can tend to the diaper part.)
Parker also likes to hold the babies, although he gets a different look in his eye. It is the look of, “Oh, the things I will try to pin on you. And the things I will dare you to do.” In short, I think he believes we are supplying soldiers for Gen. Parker’s Army of Destruction.
But back to the ways I plan on spoiling them. I think as their uncle, it is my duty to ensure that they learn a few things. So, from this day forward, I vow to Samuel and Nicholas that I will:
1. Dig deep into my memory banks and find that one little thing I used to do most pester their mothers, so as they get older, their mother’s little brother will always be there.
2. Have a complete and separate set of standards for them versus my children. When my children complain, I will remind them that they didn’t seem to mind when their aunts were doing the same thing, and then order them back into the coal mines.
3. Stockpile awesome candy at the house. We’re not candy folks, and really don’t keep a lot of sweets around the house. Oh, that is about to change. I will find what they crave most, make sure their parents don’t keep it at home, and keep it loaded up, so every time they come over, the first thing they do is sprint to the special spot in the cabinet for the gallon-sized jar of Fun Dip.
4. Teach the art of body noises. Every uncle worth his salt teaches his nephew how to make armpit music.
5. Search the shelves for the loudest, brightest, most un-turn-offable toys around. I did not know companies made toys that you could not turn off until I had kids. And it always seems that these gifts were coming from my sisters. Don’t think I didn’t notice.
6. Encourage my children to form lasting bonds with their cousins. These bonds include the no-snitching bond, the pink-belly bond, the double-dog-dare bond, and, of course, the occasional bet-you-won’t-eat-that bond.
7. Give them tattoos. No, not real tattoos. But it seems like my children often come away from their aunts’ presence with those press-on tattoos. And while I know that my sisters would never get my 6- and 3-year-old ACTUAL tattoos, it does say something that I always drag my finger over it JUST to make sure.
8. Offer to cut their hair. This is not really related to being an uncle, but the one time I tried to cut Allie’s hair was such a disaster, I would enjoy seeing the looks on my sisters’ faces when I made the offer.
9. Demand they come spend the night on occasion. Gen. Parker insists on it. There is a good chance Allie will ask for a sleepover at Grandma’s that night.
10. Find ridiculous and unnecessary clothing accessories that their parents would never buy, but they will feel somewhat obligated to dress their kids in when I come around. Here I’m thinking things like sombreros and elf shoes. I have no idea why. It just seems like the thing to do.
Before you come down too hard on me for being an irresponsible adult around my nephews, let me remind you that I am responsible all kinds of times during the day.
Ha! I kid because I care. Truth of the matter is that I am incredibly excited about having two baby nephews. I will strive to be fun uncle and little brother at the same time, a mission that I can easily accomplish.
Now, who gets the trumpet and how gets the parrot?
For six years I have endured it. I have held back. I have not fought it. But I don’t have to wait any longer.
I have two brand new nephews, and you know what that means – It’s time to buy drum sets.
Yes, my three sisters have enjoyed vying for the title of “fun aunt” since my children have been born. Candy for dinner? Sure! Bounce on the couch? Why not! Impromptu dog saddle? Let’s try it!
Oh, but it is now my turn. Samuel was born Nov. 17, and Nicholas joined us on Feb. 1. I am wringing my hands over the tough decisions an uncle has – who gets the bugle and who gets the fire truck with realistic sirens that you cannot turn off?
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking I’m being petty and spiteful and looking to get back at my sisters for years of spoiling my kids. To that I say: You are correct.
But it’s not just the revenge factor that it is so appealing. I am excited about finally getting to be fun uncle. I have fun with my kids, sure, but at the end of the day, I still have to do the dad stuff. I have to do bath time, make lunches, ask Parker to let the dog out of the trash can, etc.
The kids are very excited as well. As a 6-year-old, Allie is very caring and nurturing. She really wants to hold the babies and help feed them and such. (She has made it plainly clear that Samuel and Nicholas’ mommies can tend to the diaper part.)
Parker also likes to hold the babies, although he gets a different look in his eye. It is the look of, “Oh, the things I will try to pin on you. And the things I will dare you to do.” In short, I think he believes we are supplying soldiers for Gen. Parker’s Army of Destruction.
But back to the ways I plan on spoiling them. I think as their uncle, it is my duty to ensure that they learn a few things. So, from this day forward, I vow to Samuel and Nicholas that I will:
1. Dig deep into my memory banks and find that one little thing I used to do most pester their mothers, so as they get older, their mother’s little brother will always be there.
2. Have a complete and separate set of standards for them versus my children. When my children complain, I will remind them that they didn’t seem to mind when their aunts were doing the same thing, and then order them back into the coal mines.
3. Stockpile awesome candy at the house. We’re not candy folks, and really don’t keep a lot of sweets around the house. Oh, that is about to change. I will find what they crave most, make sure their parents don’t keep it at home, and keep it loaded up, so every time they come over, the first thing they do is sprint to the special spot in the cabinet for the gallon-sized jar of Fun Dip.
4. Teach the art of body noises. Every uncle worth his salt teaches his nephew how to make armpit music.
5. Search the shelves for the loudest, brightest, most un-turn-offable toys around. I did not know companies made toys that you could not turn off until I had kids. And it always seems that these gifts were coming from my sisters. Don’t think I didn’t notice.
6. Encourage my children to form lasting bonds with their cousins. These bonds include the no-snitching bond, the pink-belly bond, the double-dog-dare bond, and, of course, the occasional bet-you-won’t-eat-that bond.
7. Give them tattoos. No, not real tattoos. But it seems like my children often come away from their aunts’ presence with those press-on tattoos. And while I know that my sisters would never get my 6- and 3-year-old ACTUAL tattoos, it does say something that I always drag my finger over it JUST to make sure.
8. Offer to cut their hair. This is not really related to being an uncle, but the one time I tried to cut Allie’s hair was such a disaster, I would enjoy seeing the looks on my sisters’ faces when I made the offer.
9. Demand they come spend the night on occasion. Gen. Parker insists on it. There is a good chance Allie will ask for a sleepover at Grandma’s that night.
10. Find ridiculous and unnecessary clothing accessories that their parents would never buy, but they will feel somewhat obligated to dress their kids in when I come around. Here I’m thinking things like sombreros and elf shoes. I have no idea why. It just seems like the thing to do.
Before you come down too hard on me for being an irresponsible adult around my nephews, let me remind you that I am responsible all kinds of times during the day.
Ha! I kid because I care. Truth of the matter is that I am incredibly excited about having two baby nephews. I will strive to be fun uncle and little brother at the same time, a mission that I can easily accomplish.
Now, who gets the trumpet and how gets the parrot?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Sick days
You know what’s fun? Arguing with a sick 3-year-old whether or not you have pancakes.
The other night, Parker woke up around 10 and we had this conversation:
PARKER: I want pancakes.
ME: We don’t have any more pancakes.
PARKER: YES...WE...DO!!!
ME: No, you ate the last of them this morning.
PARKER: NO...I...DIDN’T!!!
ME: Yes you did.
PARKER: I want pancakes.
Repeat 8 billion times. Guess what? We still have no pancakes.
I picked up The Dude and immediately found out why he was in such a disagreeable mood. You would be, too, if your forehead were hot enough to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on.
I always hate it when my kids get fevers, which I suppose goes without saying, lest I be labeled the cruelest dad ever. But it also really worries me because on the rare occasions when I get a fever, I do it in spectacular fashion. I don’t ever get a nice, low-grade 100ish fever that brings discomfort. I opt for the 140-degree face meltings that, at the same time, somehow convinces your body that you are immersed in a snow bank. So in addition to the searing pain in my eyes, I have shivering and teeth chattering. I highly recommend you try it, assuming you hate your life and embrace suffering.
So whenever my kids start getting that warm feeling, I am afraid their temperature is going to try and overload the thermometer. I could tell by Parker’s head he was trying to be like good ol’ dad.
When we went to take his temperature, I asked him to lift up his shirt. He told me he did not want to have his temperature taken under his arm. I told him he would not like the other option. He looked at me for a minute, perhaps had a flashback from when he was a baby, and reluctantly lifted his arm. 103.
That night was a fun night. It has been a while since our kids were babies, so we forgot the joy of sleepless nights. We gave him some medicine to help break the fever, and we apparently washed it down with Jolt cola and a couple of double shot espressos.
First, he decided he was ready to go bed, but he would do it under a table for his trains. “It will be a tent,” he said exceptionally quickly. Fine, whatever. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed to his sleeping quarters. “Come with me, Daddy!!!!” he said even faster. Daddy does not fit under train tables.
Not that that mattered, since after about three minutes, he was on to his next project. At one point, I made the mistake of using the bathroom around midnight. When I returned to the hallway, I saw him standing there, pushing his half-asleep sister down the hall. She looked at me and said, “Daddy, will you please make him stop?” I distracted him (”Hey, something shiny!!”) and she slipped back to her room.
Around 1:30, I threw in the towel. Parker decided he wanted to play in the playroom (can’t remember what; he could have opted for woodworking and I would have conceded at that point). That’s when I made the command decision that was, at the same time, a colossally stupid decision.
I came into the bedroom where my wife was lying (not sleeping, since she has this crazy habit of staying awake when her children are up trying to convert tables into tents, etc.) and said, “I’m done. He’s yours. I have to work tomorrow.” I then hopped in bed and shut my eyes, ready for a deep sleep.
Truth be told, I kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible, because I did not want to see what could possibly be about to happen, such as the mattress being folded up tightly and forced out a window.
My wife decided to tend to other pressing matters, such as seeing why our son was suddenly screaming his ABCs.
So around 5:30 that morning, I was woken up, and not with the kindest of tones, I might add. “He’s asleep,” said my wife, who for SOME reason was taking a rather curt tone with me. She then told me that he had continued to be wild. “At 4 a.m., he decided to do a puppet show,” she said. A few seconds later, I learned that this was not, in fact, funny.
Although Parker had a bit of a rough day the next day, we finally got him back on a normal schedule the next night, and after a few days he was on the mend. Turns out he had the flu, which he was kind enough to share with his sister. She, on the other hand, was kind enough to respond to it by simply curling up on the couch to watch movies. There would be no puppet shows.
After a few days, when it appeared the kids were on the mend and my wife was amenable to speaking to me again, I suggested that perhaps my delivery several nights before was not the most tactful, and certainly did not accurately reflect what I was trying to say. There were far better ways to pass the sick-kid baton, and I did not opt for any of those. For that, I assured her, I was sorry. The look on her face told me she was still a wee bit angry, so I said the one thing that would make it all better: “Honey, how about a puppet show?”
The other night, Parker woke up around 10 and we had this conversation:
PARKER: I want pancakes.
ME: We don’t have any more pancakes.
PARKER: YES...WE...DO!!!
ME: No, you ate the last of them this morning.
PARKER: NO...I...DIDN’T!!!
ME: Yes you did.
PARKER: I want pancakes.
Repeat 8 billion times. Guess what? We still have no pancakes.
I picked up The Dude and immediately found out why he was in such a disagreeable mood. You would be, too, if your forehead were hot enough to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on.
I always hate it when my kids get fevers, which I suppose goes without saying, lest I be labeled the cruelest dad ever. But it also really worries me because on the rare occasions when I get a fever, I do it in spectacular fashion. I don’t ever get a nice, low-grade 100ish fever that brings discomfort. I opt for the 140-degree face meltings that, at the same time, somehow convinces your body that you are immersed in a snow bank. So in addition to the searing pain in my eyes, I have shivering and teeth chattering. I highly recommend you try it, assuming you hate your life and embrace suffering.
So whenever my kids start getting that warm feeling, I am afraid their temperature is going to try and overload the thermometer. I could tell by Parker’s head he was trying to be like good ol’ dad.
When we went to take his temperature, I asked him to lift up his shirt. He told me he did not want to have his temperature taken under his arm. I told him he would not like the other option. He looked at me for a minute, perhaps had a flashback from when he was a baby, and reluctantly lifted his arm. 103.
That night was a fun night. It has been a while since our kids were babies, so we forgot the joy of sleepless nights. We gave him some medicine to help break the fever, and we apparently washed it down with Jolt cola and a couple of double shot espressos.
First, he decided he was ready to go bed, but he would do it under a table for his trains. “It will be a tent,” he said exceptionally quickly. Fine, whatever. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed to his sleeping quarters. “Come with me, Daddy!!!!” he said even faster. Daddy does not fit under train tables.
Not that that mattered, since after about three minutes, he was on to his next project. At one point, I made the mistake of using the bathroom around midnight. When I returned to the hallway, I saw him standing there, pushing his half-asleep sister down the hall. She looked at me and said, “Daddy, will you please make him stop?” I distracted him (”Hey, something shiny!!”) and she slipped back to her room.
Around 1:30, I threw in the towel. Parker decided he wanted to play in the playroom (can’t remember what; he could have opted for woodworking and I would have conceded at that point). That’s when I made the command decision that was, at the same time, a colossally stupid decision.
I came into the bedroom where my wife was lying (not sleeping, since she has this crazy habit of staying awake when her children are up trying to convert tables into tents, etc.) and said, “I’m done. He’s yours. I have to work tomorrow.” I then hopped in bed and shut my eyes, ready for a deep sleep.
Truth be told, I kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible, because I did not want to see what could possibly be about to happen, such as the mattress being folded up tightly and forced out a window.
My wife decided to tend to other pressing matters, such as seeing why our son was suddenly screaming his ABCs.
So around 5:30 that morning, I was woken up, and not with the kindest of tones, I might add. “He’s asleep,” said my wife, who for SOME reason was taking a rather curt tone with me. She then told me that he had continued to be wild. “At 4 a.m., he decided to do a puppet show,” she said. A few seconds later, I learned that this was not, in fact, funny.
Although Parker had a bit of a rough day the next day, we finally got him back on a normal schedule the next night, and after a few days he was on the mend. Turns out he had the flu, which he was kind enough to share with his sister. She, on the other hand, was kind enough to respond to it by simply curling up on the couch to watch movies. There would be no puppet shows.
After a few days, when it appeared the kids were on the mend and my wife was amenable to speaking to me again, I suggested that perhaps my delivery several nights before was not the most tactful, and certainly did not accurately reflect what I was trying to say. There were far better ways to pass the sick-kid baton, and I did not opt for any of those. For that, I assured her, I was sorry. The look on her face told me she was still a wee bit angry, so I said the one thing that would make it all better: “Honey, how about a puppet show?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)