Retaliation

My Facebook status read:

Hey WonderWife™, that thing with the glitter....? Nicely played. I hate you for it, but nicely played. 

Earlier that day, WonderWife™ and I had what we’ll call a domestic squabble. It was a very rare occurrence for us, a couple that prides themselves on how little they fight. (A stark contrast to my parents, who I lovingly refer to as “The Costanzas”…but that’s another post for another time.) The fracas wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. At the core of it, a difference of opinion. It was the kind of row that all married couples have at some point in their relationship. But there was some anger. And by some, I mean a lot. Pointed directly at me. By her. All day I could feel her silently seething in my direction, the quiet aftermath of the initial battle.

I shrewdly decided to keep my distance. Thankfully, it was a divide and conquer sort of day where each of us took a kid to a separate birthday party. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between us. WW™ took Sprout to a party in the morning while I escorted the Bean to an afternoon affair.

In the evening, I went to my study to immerse myself in various forms of social media and tubes of You. There on my desk, directly in front of my laptop were two works of art from my daughter. The kids’ love of arts and crafts had been growing steadily and the walls of my office had become plastered with their various drawings and paintings. They would leave them for me on my desk or on the chair. But upon closer inspection, these pieces were different. They were absolutely the work of my little girl, but she had worked in a new medium. Glitter. Every square inch of the artwork was coated in a thick layer of sparkly art class glitter.

I abhor glitter with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

I used to have a cat that loved me and was incredibly territorial. During my single days, if a woman started spending too much time with me and getting comfortable in my apartment the cat would leave a present on her pillow. And by present, I mean poop. (The cat did this the most to the woman who would become WonderWife™. Later the two of them strongly bonded.) In this moment, I couldn't help but to think of that cat.  WonderWife™ was exactly like that her.

I carefully removed the glitter bombs from the room as carefully as Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker, knowing that one false move would mean debris, which would mean sometime in the near future I would be walking around with glitter embarrassingly attached to my face. All the while, WonderWife™ smiled a devilish smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if I had woken up next to a horse head.

I was pissed at WonderWife’s™ retaliation but I also applauded her cleverness. This is why I love her.

This Story Does Not Make Me Look Good

The Bean has hated getting water in his eyes since he was old enough to sit up in the bath.  To this very day, he complains whenever he gets splashed while bathing.  Though he doesn’t seem to have this problem when he’s swimming.  I don’t know why, but this has always bothered me.  I guess that getting splashed in the eye is one of those details that is so minor to me it should be minor to him.  I mean it’s just water.  And he couldn't be complaining about shampoo in his eyes because it’s not supposed to sting.  It says so right on the bottle.  His sister even confirmed that it didn't hurt.  

I was giving the Bean his bath when water splashed in his face.  As per his custom, he freaked out and asked for a rag to wipe his eyes.  Even though the rags were in a container that was literally right outside of the bathroom door, I rejected his request.  I’m not sure what compelled me to do this.  Ignoring the fact that he's six, I wanted him to stop being so dramatic over a little water.  I figured in a minute he'd forget about his eye and continue on with his washing.  Hee began to get really upset—the screaming, red-eyed, nose-running, sloppy sobbing kind of upset.  Instead of nurturing the problem that I created and getting the boy a rag, I made it worse by calmly telling him to stop crying.  The sobbing continued all the way through the bath and only calmed down after a hug from his mom and some Ninjago. 

I felt really shitty about it.    

At bedtime, I tucked the Bean under his covers and sat down on the bed. 

I inhaled deeply and said, “In the bath tonight, you asked for a rag to wipe your eye and I didn’t give it to you.  I was wrong and I’m sorry.  I should have given you what you were asking for and the next time I will.”

The Bean looked visibly relieved and a slight smile crept on his face.  We hugged.  We kissed.  We were good again.  And I walked out of his room learning a very valuable lesson—if it’s important to him, it doesn’t matter if it’s not important to me. 

Chocolate Twinkies

My sister texted me: Have you tried chocolate Twinkies yet? 
My text back: Whaa?? 

A few days later, a package arrived containing a box of chocolate
crème Twinkies. (I love my sister.)

Mere moments after the kids were in bed, WonderWife™ and I broke open the box. She took the first bite.

“Doesn’t really do anything for me,” she said between bites. “But then again, neither do regular Twinkies.”

“So you totally don’t count on this one,” I said.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she shot back, “I’d eat the whole box if given the chance.”

My wife sometimes confuses me.  I rolled my eyes at her as I opened up mine. The snack looked like a normal Twinkie—same size, same shape. The only discernible difference was the color of the three dots on the bottom of the cake. They were brown instead of the traditional white. It was only upon taking a bite that the chocolate Twinkie revealed how different it was. In a standard Twinkie the crème and cake are both vanilla, so besides moisture the crème doesn’t add a lot to the flavor of the snack. But the chocolate added an entirely new dimension to the familiar Twinkie flavor. The crème had a richer-than-expected taste that stood out nicely against the spongecake.

The new flavor is a welcome addition to the Hostess arsenal and while I give them a lot of props for creating a new variation that actually tasted new, in the great chocolate vs. vanilla debate I am solidly in the vanilla camp. Also, I’m a Twinkie purist. So if given the choice I’d pick the standard version over the chocolate crème. That is until they make a peanut butter version.

(Have I mentioned lately that I love my sister?)

Holding Hands

I panicked for a moment that I was not holding the Bean’s hand on the escalator, forgetting that he’s old enough to ride it by himself. This was followed by the sharp shot of melancholy that accompanies the realization that your kid is growing up. The Bean no longer needs to hold my hand while crossing the street or in a parking lot.

Sometimes he will take my hand out of habit and I enjoy the feeling of being connected with my first born as we walk. Sometimes he too forgets that he doesn’t need to hold on to me and clasps his hand with mine for a moment before letting go.

It’s only a matter of time before he stops taking my hand altogether. It will be added to the list of things that I miss, along with carrying him on my shoulders and tossing him up in the air.

It’s wonderful to see my son grow up. But there are times when I long for the little boy he used to be. Letting go of his hand is only the beginning.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 8

After rejecting being taught how to tell time after getting a watch:  “I don’t need to know how to tell time with a watch!” (12/11)

The Bean: Can you get me the cereal?
DGB: Who am I, your butler?
The Bean: (pointing) Hey everybody, this old man said booty! (1/12)

At a hockey game: "Why do they say 'go Kings go? They don't move." (1/12)

The Bean: This watch makes me look fancy.
DGB: Oh, you want to look fancy?
The Bean: Duh, I'm a boy! (1/12)

“School is so worky!” (10/11)

“I keep thinking, why am I me? It’s hard to explain. Why am I me? I don’t even remember being in mommy’s tummy.” (11/11)

WonderWife™: Why weren’t you wearing underwear?
The Bean: Because it was Wednesday. (11/11)

"I smell stinky chocolate, or is it my feet?" (12/11)

The Bean: "I expected Disney World to look more like Mexico."* (12/11)

The Bean: Those things are in a force shield
WonderWife™: A force field.
The Bean: No, a force shield! (1/12)

The Bean: Aki.  Aki ya.
DGB: What are you doing?
The Bean: Speaking Spanish.
DGB:  That's not Spanish.
The Bean: I know!! (4/12)


*He's never been close to Mexico.


Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition
Volume 7

Pain in the Chest

I’m dying, I thought to myself as I woke up. It was my fifth day living with an unidentified pain that resided in my chest near my heart. As I rolled over, my arm felt numb. This is it, I nearly said out loud, this is the beginning of my end. For a few minutes, I was too groggy to realize that I had been lying on my arm, thus the pins and needle sensation. Thankfully, WonderWife™ wasn’t making toast for breakfast because that might have sent me into a tailspin. So I wasn’t having a heart attack, but I didn’t have an answer for the ache in my chest.

I’m not a hypochondriac. I rarely get sick. I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I wanted to hide in the back of my closet. This was impractical, unrealistic and foolish. I needed to act. People in this world depended on me and loved me. But I was scared. Scared of what this pain might mean. Scared of what the doctor could tell me. I forced myself not to look anything up on the internet.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I told WonderWife™ about the pain knowing that once I blurted the truth to her, I couldn’t run away from it. She wouldn’t let me.

“I need to go to the doctor,” I told WW™ quietly over breakfast. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it. I’m scared. I’m dying.”

She rubbed my shoulder and reassured me in a way that said, “you’re going to be fine” and “you’re a freaking lunatic.” I wished she would have said, “You’re not dying you just can’t think of anything better to do.” But that’s a foolish pipe dream.

At this point I did what any rational non-rational person would do and made an appointment with the my GP. After I carefully laid out my symptoms, the doc seemed rather nonplussed about my condition. I didn’t take this as a sign of encouragement, because the man might be the most blasé person I’ve ever encountered. He did tell me that it was unlikely I was dying, but so that I might someday be able to get back to sleep he would run a few tests.

I was escorted to a small, seemingly little-used back room of the office where, sitting amongst boxes of files haphazardly strewn about, was a treadmill. Electrodes were glued all over my body and I tried not to think about how they would feel later being pulled off of my fuzzy chest. I ran on the treadmill while the doctor and a nurse cranked it faster and higher all the while reading beeps and lines of the machine that was connected to me. Or they could have been playing Angry Birds. I’m not really sure because I was busy huffing it on the treadmill, silently pleading for them to stop the machine before I passed out.

As predicted, none of the things a doctor wouldn’t want to see on the test were there. Everything was fine. Sure I had blown through my deductible in one visit, but I now had peace of mind. For now. I’m getting older. It’s really just a matter of time before something else happens.

The Voices

I give different voices to the characters in some of the books I read to my kids. Not all of them, but some. I don't what it is about a particular book that inspires me to do it, but I am compelled each time I read them aloud to add this performance element. Though I possess a few talents, the ability to create cartoon quality voices escapes me. Most of them end up sounding a lot like Marvin Martian/Kermit the Frog mutations.

I started doing the voices for the Bean though I am not sure if he didn't notice or just didn't care because he never said anything about them. Maybe he just accepted that this is what some grow ups do when they read books. Sprout, on the other hand, has become enchanted with them–well two of them, at least.

Piggy (a pig) has a nasally whine. Gerald (elephant) has a dumb sounding voice kind of like Petey Puma when he's asking for a whole lotta lumps. They are the stars of a series of books by the immortal Mo Willems. The Bean went through big phase with these books that burned hot and fast. They soon collected dust on his shelf–until the girl found them. I've been reading them to her for a few weeks now in the exact same way that I read them to her brother, with these goofy voices. Each performance is fairly consistent, the cadence and inflection of the characters were cemented in years ago. Surprisingly, Sprout not only noticed the voices she soon asked me to sing her goodnight song in Piggie's voice.

The singing requests came through for the next few nights and it wasn't long before Gerald joined the act, helping Piggie sing Mary Had a Little Lamb. Without a book to follow, the act varied a bit from night to night. Sprout was enthralled. Next Sprout discovered the Bean's old Gerald and Piggie dolls and they were added to the song. Sprout now squeals with delight when her nighttime routine turns into a puppet show.

And I must admit that I am very much enjoying performing nightly for an audience of one.