This morning — believe me, I wish I was making this shit up — Leanne came into our room, stood on the foot of the bed, and started yelling “cock-a-doodle-do”. Why anyone teaches their kids how to speak is beyond me.
Adding insult to injury, she then pulled the covers off of me. Let’s not forget this is just a normal Tuesday. When I think about what she has planned for Christmas morning I wet myself a little and then curl up in a corner.
I have what I believe to be an elegant solution to the problem. I’m going to get her addicted to coffee. Come with me here. The reason this morning’s antics had me wondering about the potential fire hazards and legal implications of nailing her door shut at night is because I’m an order of magnitude beyond useless without my morning coffee. On average, roughly three days a week I don’t remember Meg’s name until well after 8am.
If I could apply that to Leanne? Picture a zombie child wandering into our room in the morning and plopping on the foot of the bed only to fall back asleep. If I time it correctly, she won’t start to get talkative until the walk to the bus.
Assuming Meg convinces me not to go forward with this plan, I’m marking this date: October 29, 2013. Let’s say that the teenage sleep-until-noon thing starts at 15. On October 29, 2022, I am setting my alarm for 5am and I’m going to blow an airhorn in her room. Some of you who don’t know me may be wondering if I’m really the kind of jackass that will hold a grudge for 9 years. Those of you who do know me aren’t wasting time wondering.
“Tell daddy about the mirror at school today.”
“There were boogies on it.”
Ok, so it’s gonna be one of those nights. I do a quick mental inventory of what beer is in the fridge and continue.
“Ah, that’s lovely.”
“I cleaned them off.”
That special headache I never got prior to 6 years ago? It’s back.
“Um… Ok, how to handle this. Did you wash your hands afterwards?”
She nodded “yes” in the child sheepish way that clearly indicated “no”.
“Ok, how about this. If you see boogies on the mirror at home, you can clean those. At school, they have people to do that for you.”
She said “ok” in the teenage eye-roll way that clearly indicated she had stopped listening to me.
I’m disappointed with human evolution. You’d think by now things that are essential to our survival would be less painful. Like childbirth. Arguably, the 27 labor hours of pain and hardship is the species’ way of prepping you for the next 18 years of pain and hardship, but that’s not my point.
Teething. And I’m not even talking about the pain of actually cutting teeth. That sucks too, but at least it’s thematically consistent. There are side effects that just don’t make any sense. Austin has had explosive shits for the past few days as this latest batch of teeth hits. His ass is so red it looks like a baboon’s. He’s actually walking funny because of it.
Do you have any idea how painful that is for me? Yes, he’s my son, but having to analyze his b-hole to figure out if it’s more or less red than the diaper I changed 45 minutes ago is horrifying. And that’s not even taking into consideration the psychological damage of actual applying the Butt Paste to try to heal it. They don’t make soap strong enough for my hands to ever feel clean again.
To those of you without kids, yes, that’s a real thing. It’s actually called Butt Paste. Millions of years of evolution and what do we have to show for it? Easily grown teeth? No, we have Butt Paste. Yay humanity.