In case you're new... I write an often-monthly post called “You Know You’re A Parent When…”
YKYA #8 is dedicated to all you writing Moms and Dads :)
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You Know You’re A Parent When…
·
No.
1 Son wanders over from his bedroom, “forcing” you and The Missus to switch
from the exciting new Blue Bloods, to
a much-watched Blue’s Clues.
(During that same night, same Son
expresses his desire to finish watching the last “Grey’s Anthony.”)
...Which is when you remember there were many valid reason why you didn’t want a
television in the bedroom :)
·
Washing
hands in the downstairs bathroom… you rinse, wash and rinse… all the while looking
down (and moving) a very soapy, soggy parrot.
Leaving the bathroom, you stop suddenly
in the hallway to ask the simple, but obvious question: How did a stuffed Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville parrot end in the
sink?
You mull the question while starting
a load of laundry; wiping two noses; changing a level IV stinkometer diaper and figure what’s for dinner. (Curry is removed from menu.) However,
the answer eludes you – as do the two sons in the back yard.
·
Later that week, as
Mama and No. 3 Son (infant) leave for evening Bible study, you promise to hold
the fort, and send them off with a wink, and a jolly old I’ll-be-fine wave.
Peace and Quiet.
On both levels of the home.
Everywhere.
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| Why Does He Need fingers To Keep The Truck In One Spot? |
You
start in on the book, your work-in-progress, (the WIP.)
An
hour later, No. 1 Son wanders over (again :) Quick negotiations result in a
glass of water (already waiting in the fridge) and a cleared spot on the couch –
with the Cars comforter.
All is well.
You
return to WIP.
·
Out
of nowhere, No. 2 Son closes your sphincter with a huge scream… Rushing
upstairs – with a highly dangerous universal remote control in hand – you
prepare to assault the ninja intruders…
Entering with the stealth of a blind
rhino, No. 2 Son’s room is quiet and he’s re-asleep in his crib – with nary a
swish or a sway in the blinds denoting the departure of said ninjas.
As soon as your blood pressure drops
below “pounding,” you holster the remote on the coffee table and...
You
return to WIP.
·
Fifteen
minutes later, a quick review of the troops confirms No. 2 is asleep and No. 1
hasn’t yet fallen off the couch. (Suh-weet!)
All. Is. Well.
Heading to the kitchen for a
long-awaited snack, your clod-hopping foot unfortunately punts (“kick” is too small a word) the LARGE fire truck-transformer
thing that sat *quietly* on the floor.
All. Night. Long.
In the millisecond before the thing lights
up and springs to life with abundant and vibrating glee, you remember stepping
over the darn truck – twice – while saying “Ohhh, I should move that (less than five feet over) to the side.”
(Italicized
words added to emphasis current level of moronic status.)
The four wheelmen of the toy-pocalypse announce themselves with klaxons blaring: WHOO! WHOO!
Then shouts of: “GET THE ENGINE STARTED!!!”
Then shouts of: “GET THE ENGINE STARTED!!!”
Another klaxon (in case kids were
still sleeping…WHOO WHOO!!)
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| "I'll Be Back..." |
And more dialogue for neighbors who
missed the first round… “DRIVER, LET’S GET GOING!!”
Transfixed in the middle of the
floor, with evil, evil punting leg still stuck in the air, you cringe and wait
for the non-toy screaming to begin.
Kiddos stir, but after two sets of
up-and-down-the-stairs to make sure – the truth sets you free: They sleep.
Still.
Following an impromptu white-man-can’t-dance
to a hummed, instrumental version of “Joy To The World,” the adrenalin dissipates,
and the fire-truck thingy is moved to the yard – the far yard.
Of course, the On/Off button is nowhere
to be found. Instead, you run CAUTION – DO NOT CROSS tape around, above and
under the Red Monster.
You slide the lanai doors closed,
wash your hands (removing parrot) and then dry your hands (dropping
parrot back in sink.)
You
return to WIP.
“Hi, Sweetie, we had a wonderful
night. How was your evening watching the two boys?”
Throwing a throw over much of No. 1
Son, you cover the rest of the little lad and nonchalantly say:
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| "You'll Never Take Me Alive, Coppers!!" |
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