You know You’re A Parent When…
|Don't Tickle Him, Elmo!|
This happens only twenty-four hours before you’re called into action for an assist by the doctors who helped deliver Son. No. 3.
OK, fair enough, so they only asked if I wanted to cut the umbilical cord, but that’s like a really important job.
Feeling like a million bucks, these two events lead to a renewal of one’s Man Card while strutting around and singing stuff like “Oh Yeah, Who’s Your Daddy” (and other grown-up songs from yesteryear.)
In the midst of all this manliness, you nearly stumble over a small round package. No, it’s not exactly round, it’s more U-shaped. Looking at it from different sides, it’s some new cushion made by a Boppie.
What’s a “Boppie?
You solve the mystery of the mysterious “Boppie” when, needing a pillow, you remove the cushion thing with BOPPY all over the packaging. Discarding all manuals or paperwork
like a good male
you step back and examine the pillow/cushion thing on the floor. Kicking it a few times, why you begin to think it might actually be comfortable.
Something is still wrong, though…It looks like a travel pillow for Andre the Giant, but feels like a soft cushion, but is too high to use as a normal pillow…what do I do with the Boppy?
The pink hospital has no Wi-Fi – therefore no Pandora (Internet radio) – but does, however, have *Rock Star* nurses, doctors and awesome support staff :)
Under normal circumstances, you are incapable of writing in a silent environment, but you shrug off the minor inconvenience of no music. There's a TV, which is better than nothing.
However, after many spread-through-the-day hours of cable news talking Iowan, Pawn Stars talking idols and House talking iodine, you realize nothing is getting done – except for the crick in your neck.
Switching off the life-sucking device, you power up the ‘puter, and struggle to write in the stillness. Sadly, with no tunes to motivate you, the words dry up on the page like an Irish Pub on March 18.
Hang on a second, there’s still hope… your laptop! It came with a folder of sample music!
Surely there must be a few hours of sample music to listen to… maybe a couple hundred tunes to write to, dozens of genres to choose from…
There are three tunes.
With no lyrics.
That last eleven minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
Even when you shuffle
and turn repeat ON.
Driven nuts by your own mismanagement of music, the tears slowly fall down your ruggedly handsome face.
Dude, seriously, this is how you want to begin the New Year?
The tears slowly fall…down the undulating valleys of your unshaven, non-rugged face.
Glancing toward the spare batteries in the computer bag, you weep for the lonely iPod
with 2,600 songs…
lying atop the kitchen cabinet.
On a happy note, you finally figure out how to use the Boppy and with that... all’s well that ends well.
| GOT BOPPY? |
(Photo Credit: Son No. 1 :)