The How-Not-To Guide to Parenting and Marriage (10 page)

43. THE AUDIENCE

Children have a way of taking over things. My daughters have taken over my free time, my kitchen, my television, and sometimes I think they've taken over my sanity. My girls have also taken over our bathroom and shower.

In our shower, there are now "people" that line the edge of our bathtub. There must be at least fifty of them. Everything from Fisher Price people, to Barbie’s and even Ken. I never really thought about it that much . . . . Until one day.

On this particular day, I climbed in the shower like I always do after work. The row of people were there, which like I said, was normal. But as I reached for the shampoo, I accidently knocked it off of the overcrowded shampoo/conditioner/body wash shelf. The shampoo, in turn, knocked several of the "people" from their bathtub perch.

This is the point at which these folks actually got my full attention. I leaned over to pick one up, and noticed how smiling and happy the person's face was . . . . Almost too happy.

As I picked up the rest of the fallen people, I realized that they were ALL smiling at me. So as I put them back on the ledge of the tub, I turned them so that they were facing the wall. Only, there were still forty or so faces of the ones who hadn't fallen, still looking at me.

Getting back to the business of washing my hair, I tried to forget about my audience, but every time I looked down, there they were . . . . . smiling. It was almost as if a large crowd had gathered to watch me take a shower, and for some reason, they seemed to think it was amusing. I was sure that I could even hear them laughing.

I suddenly felt like I should cover myself in my own shower. I tried turning myself so that I was facing the other direction, but there were laughing people facing that way as well.

One of the little people was actually winking . . . and the Ken doll had a smile that was obviously mocking me.

"Knock it off you JERK!" I said to Ken, getting more self-conscious.

And standing right next to Ken was Barbie, who was not only laughing at me, but pointing as well. It was as if she and Ken were sharing an inside joke about my showering. They were laughing and pointing and laughing some more.

"WHY, YOU LITTLE - . . . . WHAT IS SO FUNNY?" I screamed.

"Who are you yelling at?" my wife wondered from outside the door, "who else is in the shower with you?"

"THERE'S A WHOLE BUNCH OF PEOPLE . . . . Oh, never mind" I answered as I wrapped up in a towel.

I'd had enough. I stormed out of the bathroom with shampoo still in my hair. And leaving a trail of wet footprints and foam behind me, I marched upstairs to finish my shower in our othe
r bathroom, free of an audience.

44.
LAUNDRY HINTS FOR HELPFUL HUSBANDS

My wife and I both work long hours
, at times. So we end up trying to get the house work done whenever we can squeeze it in.

The laundry seems to be a never ending battle that requires both of us doing it, just to keep up. During my years of doing some of the laundry, I have learned a few things that might be helpful to other husbands who want to help out.

First off, my wife always insisted that I sort the laundry by color. This means the color of the clothing, and not the color of the stains, as I originally thought. This makes a lot more sense to me now, because most of our laundry would either be in a dirt color load, or grass stain load. It could take a month or longer to finally have enough mustard or fruit punch stains for a whole load.

Also, if you run out of detergent and decide to use shampoo as an alternative, do not use a full detergent cup full, as it tends to be a bit more sudsy. Certain shampoos can take up to 8 rinse cycles to finally get all the bubbles out.

Work boots that were worn all day in the rain, should not be put in the dryer. The musty, dirty foot smell will linger for a month and transfer to clean clothing.

And finally, I don't recommend putting clothes in the dish washer when the washing machine is broken. Loose articles of clothing can make their way down to the dish drying heat element causing a small fire and ruining your wife's favorite bra, making her mad and vengeful enough to take scissors to your favorite Pink Floyd t-shirt.

Likewise, dishes should not go in the washing machine when the dish washer is broken . . . . . you will end up buying new dishes.

45.
THE NEVER ENDING BATTLE

It has been said that one should "let sleeping dogs lie". This is sound advice, however, it fails to explain just how to get the dogs lying and sleeping in the first place. Getting my two wiggly, giggly girls into bed is a losing battle that begins shortly after dinner, and carries on through the entire evening, leaving me exhausted from the sheer amount of arguing, threatening and screaming that it involves.

When they were yet quite small, it didn't seem as taxing. I would put them into bed, they would cry, and sometimes come wandering back out, at which point, I would take them back. At the very least, it was a simple game.

As they got older, it became more and more complicated. They have mastered the technique of making excuses for postponing bedtime, and for getting out of bed once that I've gotten them there. Somehow, they have honed in on just what to say in order to give their excuses just enough legitimacy to keep me from bodily forcing them into the bed and duct taping them to the mattress. Their creativity in this department is within the realm of prodigy.

Every night, shortly after dinner, I make the announcement in my stern and commanding voice, that it is time to get ready for bed. As scripted, my darling daughters begin with their opening arguments.

"But DAD! It's only six-thirty! Bedtime is at eight-thirty! Why do we have to start getting ready now?"

I give my standard reply, "Bed time IS at eight-thirty, but I know that it will take at least two hours to get you wild animals ready and calmed down! In fact, we might be hard pressed to actually make the eight-thirty deadline
”. This argument we are having now, usually takes at least twenty-five minutes to complete!"

Once this argument has run its course, we begin the slow and painful process of getting them into pajamas. This alone
, can take up to forty five minutes, and usually sounds something like this:

"I can't find any clean pajamas. . . . . I don't like this pair . . . . Natalie is wearing my pajama bottoms . . . . . but they don't fit Hannah anymore and mom said they were now mine . . . . This pair makes me itch . . . . .  that pair always smells like cauliflower".

And all the while, I am firing back responses in the name of bedtime progress:

"Did you look in your drawer . . . . . You don't have to like them, you just have to wear them . . . . .  Your butt quit fitting in that pair two years ago, they barely fit Natalie . . . . . . Wear them and scratch wherever they itch . . . . . . Then put on the pair that you say always smells like lemons . . . . . GO TO BED NAKED FOR ALL I CARE!!!!!"

Finally, the pajamas have been put on. My wife, sensing my growing irritation and fatigue, usually jumps in about now to give me a short break from the nightly fray. On this particular evening she orders them:

"Go wash your teeth and brush your face."

Now she's gone and done it. What would seem to most people as a simple slip of the tongue, will now add at least twenty minutes onto the nightly routine. The peanut gallery, quick to take advantage of such a folly, starts up with their predictable silliness:

"HA HA HA! . . . . .  Mom said wash your teeth and brush my face! . . . . . Giggle, giggle! . . . .  OK MOM, I'M BRUSHING MY FACE! . . . . . HA HA . . . . . HEY MOM, WANT ME TO FLUSH MY BUTT AND WIPE THE TOILET? . . . . . . HEE HEEE!" and so on.

I do my best to put out this fire of additional delay, "Alright, it wasn't all that funny . . . . . Let’s settle down . . . . . . That's enough butt and toilet talk, Natalie! . . . . . C'mon girls get it under control."

Once they have finally been pajama'd and tooth brushed, it is time to try and actually get them into their beds. Knowing that it was now this time, they both scatter, as if the crack of a pistol had signaled the start of a race. Natalie runs to find her blanky. Hannah wants a book to read . . . "where's the cat?, I always take the cat to bed . . . . . . Momma didn't give me a hug."

Doing my best to keep them heading in the direction of bed, I begin to feel like a soccer player chasing two little girl soccer balls. Trying in vain to keep kicking them towards the goal. But even the best World Cup player never had to deal with two soccer balls at once.

Within a half an hour or so, I finally kick two goals and they are now in bed, but there is little relief in this fact.

I then head back downstairs to my recliner where I await the next phase of sleep avoidance by the two bouncy soccer balls. This comes in the form of an endless parade of trips back downstairs.

(Footsteps coming downstairs)

"I forgot my drink"

"You have exactly three seconds to get your drink and get back in bed!"

(Footsteps coming downstairs)

"Natalie won't lie with her butt flat on the bed because she's afraid that someone might be hiding under the bed with a gun and she doesn't want to get shot in the butt."

"Tell Natalie that she is being ridiculous. There is nobody with a gun hiding under the bed. It would be way too hard to aim a gun in that little of a space, and if there is someone hiding in the room with a gun, they are probably in the closet."

(Footsteps coming downstairs)

(Sobbing)" The cat bit my nose."

"What was dad's rule for kissing the cat goodnight?"

"You said to never give her a kiss goodnight when her eyes are big and her ears are flat, but her eyes weren't big, she just had flat ears!"

"Ok, now we know that we don't kiss the cat goodnight if either her ears are flat OR her eyes are big. Get a band aid and go to bed".

Sometime around midnight, the footsteps stop coming down the stairs. I now have a few precious moments relax, maybe even take a short nap. The girls have to be ready for school at seven o'clock, and in order to make this deadline, we have to begin waking them up at about five o'clock. Just in time to start "The Never Ending Battle" morning shift.

46.
MY MUSIC

I sat down at our desktop computer to enjoy some songs from my music library, while my wife watched one of her dumb TV shows. I put my headphones on and began searching and playing my music.

One of the first tunes from my library that came on, was AC/DC's TNT. This song can't be played at low volumes, so I turned it up a bit and began a mild head banging motion. My wife was giving me an odd look.

As the song played on, I was compelled to crank the volume up even higher. My wife's odd look grew even odder, and began to take on an air of annoyance.

If she didn't like my head banging, she could just stop looking at me and focus on her dumb show!

Or that's what I was thinking until I happened to look down and see that I had forgotten to plug in the headphones, so the music was blasting at a level that the neighbo
rs across the street could hear.

47.
THE TRAUMATIC CHANGES TO ONES LIFE ASSOCIATED WITH GETTING MARRIED.

No one ever warned me of all the changes that take place when one gets married. Just when you think you have it all figured out, along comes a wife who takes your neatly org
anized bucket of life, and dumps it all over the floor.

My own wife could have warned me about her intentions with my apartment before we were married and she moved in. It's not like she hadn't ever been there before. She never mentioned that there were issues with the way I had things set up........ She just moved in and started changing things.

The first thing she did as she entered our newly shared home, was to walk straight over to my large Pink Floyd wall banner that I had won at the fair, and remove it from the wall.

"What are you doing?" I asked nervously.

"This has to go" she answered as she replaced the banner with two candle holders that were infested with fake floral arrangements and little mirrors.

"Ummm... Can't we talk abou-"

But before I could state my case, she had already moved on to the bathroom. Little did I know, this seemingly small incident would set the tone for the next several days ...... and perhaps our marriage. From that exact point, the household was no longer mine, nor did I have any say in what happened within its walls. Our domestic relationship became one of her running around "doing things" to the apartment, while I followed behind saying things like, "Well, are you sure we should-..... I mean .... I really liked the way it was .... How about we talk about........"

But to no avail.

Immediately following the desecration of the Pink Floyd banner, she went straight to the bathroom carrying a huge box of variously scented hair, skin, body, and face products. There was every type smell and flavor under the sun..... mango, rose petal, pineapple, maple, passionfruit, and many more perfumey smelling ones. And when all these scents were combined and emanating from the large box. It smelled like a wet dog that had been assaulted by a fruit wagon.

Up until this attack on my way of life, my bathroom had been a fairly simple room. It contained toilet paper, a dirty clothes basket, a basket for clothes that were almost, but not quite yet dirty, and a towel. The medicine cabinet contained a toothbrush, my baseball card collection, and the bar of soap that I showered, shampooed, and brushed my teeth with.

But all that was gone now, or buried under the tonnage of her smelly stuff. She had even removed my collection of vintage fake vomit and poop from the shelf above the toilet, and replaced with "precious something-or-other" figurines with creepy huge eyes. The trauma from these changes was a shock to my system, and made it difficult for me to go to the bathroom..... so much so, that I had to relieve myself behind the garage for a week until my psyche was able to adapt to being watched by the mutant figurines while I did my business.

Next in her sights was the kitchen. Once there, she attacked the refrigerator, which was emptied of nightcrawler containers, and all similar matter of live bait. The beer crisper drawer was emptied and filled with various vegetable matter. Flowery curtains were also added to the windows where my dream-catchers once hung.

The changes were not just limited to the objects in the apartment either. Rules were added. Rules that did not seem logical to me. In fact, I had such a difficult time remembering and adjusting to the new rules, that a list was posted on the wall in the dining room that read like this:

1. Clothes must be washed after each wear (instead of waiting until they failed the sniff test)

2. No showering with the dog (my attempt at water conservation).

3. Pizza can only be ordered once a week (I lobbied for cutting back to every third day, but again, was soundly vetoed)

4. Showering is now a daily event (instead of waiting until I failed the sniff test)

5. And finally, I was expected to discuss with my wife prior to deciding to skip work and drive to the Star Trek convention, instead of letting her know from my hotel room in Toledo.

Over the course of the following year, more changes were implemented.... Too many to even list. But I slowly became accustomed to them, and eventually even felt like things were getting back to normal.

That is, until the arrival of two daughters. Where once again, my neatly organized bucket of life was dumped out all over the floor.