Or…Dear Penthouse, I never thought this could happen to me…
It’s no secret that the last few weeks have been off the charts stressful here in the House of Chaos. I’ve moved past laugh to keep from screaming to drink to drown the hysterics that will frighten dogs and small children and land me in a quiet padded room. Our health insurance went up eleventy billion dollars for less coverage, we’re looking at a significant salary drop this year, I’m trying to find some sort of gainful employment, one son is struggling in school, the other has become a juicy grape and is w(h)ining non-stop, together they are attempting to break all records for MAKING THEIR PARENTS LOSE THEIR SHIT IN FIVE SECONDS OR LESS, I overdid it at cardio fit yesterday and am so sore that I’m typing this with my tongue, and the dog has toxic farts from hell that the Department of Defense is studying as a possible new weapon of mass destruction. Oh, and it’s a three-day weekend.
The only thing keeping the adults in this house from sitting in the corner, rocking and sucking thumbs is the dog would come over for a belly rub and land a silent-but-deadly, burning off all skin and hair and rendering us unconscious, as well as deaf, blind, and mute.
We decided to have a quiet day at home today. No church, hang out, do some planning for the week. Just a nice.quiet.day.
With the particular set of children we have, there’s not a lot of opportunity for gettin’ busy “private adult time.” Even though they’re in bed on the early side, they stay up reading until they pass out from exhaustion, then are up at the crack of dawn. If we wait for some boom chicka wah wah “private adult time” until after they’re certainly asleep, we’re too tired to knock boots for anything and we pass out instantly. So the occasional Sunday morning pickle tickle “private adult time” rocks. We set the boys up with something and disappear. Unfortunately, A is grounded from anything with a screen this weekend for his little “play with Daddy’s phone and accidentally call his boss in the middle of the night” stunt (gets better: said boss was sick with the flu when he called. Sigh), so we left the boys eating breakfast.
A muffled crash. Me: Let’s pretend we didn’t hear that.
I need to invent some sort of portable, concrete doorway barrier for parents wanting to get it on some “private adult time.” Preferably something with klaxon horn alarms, spikes, fire hoses, and rabid dogs. The locked door and laundry basket wedged under the doorknob only served to slow A from barreling into the room to tell us that he dropped his juice glass and it shattered. The dog snuck in at that point. And stayed. After shooing the child, relocking the door and jumping back on the express bus to Funkytown returning to some “private adult time,” the dog informed us that she wanted in on the action by attempting to jump on the bed. Repeatedly. The phone rang and was answered by a child, who came back up to inform us that some friends were on their way over. The juice in question was grape. It hit the carpet. And the boys were cleaning up the broken glass…in bare feet.
It was a less-than-satisfying dance between the sheets “private adult time,” all before 11 am. All we could do was laugh. And look at one another and laugh some more, to the point of much needed hysterical tears. In retrospect, we should have just stayed in the shower. Two and a half hours later, no questions yet from A. Those will come either in front of some guests or the Pastor next week, if he asks where we were today. Proof positive that we have not an angry or vengeful God, just one who needs a good laugh like the rest of us now and again (to wit: gonna skip out on a Sunday morning? Ok, let’s try this on for size!).
Are you having a nice, quiet day? What’s that like?