My kids have started this early morning club which, thanks to today’s events, me and my wife had to shut down, not unlike a band of cops shutting down a Hell’s Angels clubhouse. Here’s the deal: The boy, he’s 4, wakes up early. Well, the girl (2) wakes up early too, and to be honest, I don’t know who wakes up first, but one thing is certain. Namely, that once one is up, the other is immediately woken up. The boy sleeps in a small, toddler sized bed in a room with the door slightly ajar. The girl sleeps in a crib in a room with the door closed. My personal theory is that the girl wakes up first and starts yelling for the boy, who climbs out of bed, goes into the kitchen, fixes them breakfast and then carries said breakfast into her room, where he hands all the food over into the crib and then climbs in himself.
Every morning when I get up, I find the two of them in the crib with 2 plates with waffles and various cereal bars and shit strewn everywhere. Part of me is furious that they’ve made such a mess but that part of me is immediately silenced by the part of me that’s really grateful for the extra hour of sleep AND the part of me that thinks it’s a little bit adorable that this dude makes plates of waffles and brings them to his sister in bed every morning. That shit’s cute, folks. SO, until this morning, I let the breakfast club exist in a state of tolerated illegality.
However, today shit got real. My wife is a hoarder. Well, she’s not a hoarder so much as she’s a self-proclaimed ‘pack rat’ which, to me is kind of like saying ‘homosexual’ instead of ‘homo’ in that it’s just a less rude way of saying the same thing. Anyway, she’s got stashes of shit everywhere. This creates massive confusion for me, and in fact, I’ll digress here to discuss something that happened this morning. Our cleaning lady comes today. Therefore we have to straighten up our house before she gets here. As there are four of us and we all skew slightly towards ‘slob,’ this process of straightening the house can, at times, become an emotionally charged pain in the dick. Today, I was looking at a business card for a babysitter that had been placed in some sort of stack that I didn’t have any part of building. I asked my wife about the card and she said something to the effect of “oh, I think I got that at a street festival or something.” I put it back on the stack and went back to straightening up whatever I had been busy with before. About 20 minutes later, my wife storms out holding the card and says “You picked this up and then just put it back? Jesus! I’m the only person who ever throws anything away in this fucking house. If I don’t do it, nothing will ever get done!”
This is kind of true, but what I think she failed to realize in the heat of the moment is that everything in this house, all these stacks of shit that are all over the place, are hers and I honestly can’t tell the garbage from the good shit. It has been so drilled into me to not throw shit away that right now if something is not literally smeared in some sort of feces it’s not going in the garbage can (and even that’s not an ironclad guarantee of trash-dom). Today in the course of trying to be productive, I asked if we could throw away the receipt for the oil pan that we purchased from an auto parts place 4 months ago and installed into our car 2 months ago. She told me ‘no. We need that for the records of what we’ve done to the car, maintenance-wise.’ See, this is the part that’s so confusing. I think she’s right about that. I have no domestic gene at all. I would have thrown that away thinking, foolishly, that the receipt for something that we’ve already used the shit out of, to the point where returning it is impossible, is just cluttering up our counter space. Then, when the day of reckoning came, when that receipt needed to be presented to someone, it would be my dick in the boil. I would have fucked that right up. But the thing is, stuff like this, stuff that’s evidence of important grown up shit that I’m too stunted to recognize as important, is mixed in with all sorts of completely useless trash that I’m an asshole if I DON’T throw away. To understand the confusion in this house is to know the difference between an old receipt and a potential babysitter’s email address, and while I can look at it all in hindsight now and know what to do, it’s a little like the way we’re no longer allowed to take shampoo on an airplane. I’m good at facing situations that I’ve already fucked up and that I’ll never face again. The next bout with terror will be in an untested arena…And all I’ll be able to do is stand there like a dick while my wife either grabs something useful out of the trash or throws some shitty piece of trash away.
But anyway, one of the things she hoards is candy. She’s got an old timey breadbox that’s packed with skittles and candy bars and starbursts and lollipops and all sorts of shit. She used to have a candy stash drawer in her old office too, but her new office doesn’t have space for that so…I don’t know what she does for candy when she’s at work. In fact, I don’t even think that she needs a stash of candy around in order to satiate her sweet tooth. She just needs to be secure in the knowledge that if a squad of children suddenly burst in from the porch, or all her friends came over on their periods at the same time, she’d have the goods to make sure that everyone went away satisfied. It’s maybe a little like having a bomb shelter. I don’t know.
SO, this morning the candy stash was raided. I woke up to spilled water and a green kaleidoscope of sugary shit all over the counter as the result of one of those things with the package of powder and the dipping stick being recklessly devoured. I walked into the girl’s room and she’s holding a bunch of these Japanese chocolate covered stick things and screaming “I’ve got caaaaaandy!” It was chaos. They also had their waffles, but something vastly more sinister was at play.
So we threw away all the candy. We’re shutting down the breakfast club by making the boy sleep behind a closed door (he’s got this thing on his doorknob that prevents his escape) and the ultimate end result of this is that tomorrow morning there’s gonna be loud, shitty screaming in our house at like 6am. I’m not happy about any of it, BUT on the bright side, the cleaning lady is coming today, so at least we’ll be up early in a nice, sparkly house, free of wanton business cards.
Okay, that’s all.