by Jon Ziegler
6. I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON.
I'm vaguely aware of a noise. . . . I tune it out, and go back to my dream about killing zombies.
I think I hear the noise again. . . . It’s an annoying noise. . . . It’s like a loud buzzing noise. Once again, I tune it out.
Now I hear the noise again, only this time, there is a voice with it. I decide to lift the window shades of my brain just enough to see what all the commotion is about. The annoying noise is the alarm, and the voice belongs to my wife. She seems to be saying something to me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a neon sign is flickering. It reads, "Just hit the snooze button". This sounds like a very good idea. But I still here the noise of the alarm, and my wife seems to be still saying things, only she seems to be getting a little more annoyed, or at least that's what it sounds like.
I decide to actually open an eye to see what in the world is causing my wife to complain, and the snooze button not to work.
I open an eye and turn my head to discover that the snooze button isn't working because I'm not hitting the snooze button, and my wife is complaining because I'm hitting her forehead as if it were the snooze button.
"Why is your stupid head where the stupid snooze button should be?” I grumble as I painfully get out of bed and wrap myself in the blanket like a robe.
As I head downstairs I hear my wife once again complaining. Something about me being a jerk for stealing the blanket.
As I enter the kitchen, I nearly trip to my death on the cat who is still sleeping blissfully. Not just sleeping blissfully, but sleeping blissfully and smirking. Smirking because she is still sleeping blissfully while I get up and go earn money to feed her flea bitten carcass. I throw the cat outside.
I stumble my way into the bathroom and sit down on the toilet. A few minutes pass. I try to remember if I went to the bathroom or not. I can’t remember so I stand up. I then realize that I probably didn't go to the bathroom, for in spite of the fact that I did make it to the toilet and sat down, I still had the blanket wrapped around me like a burrito. So had I actually went to the bathroom, there would probably be some evidence of it inside the burrito. I take off the blanket and sit back down.
I go back into the kitchen to make a piece of toast, but I can't find the bread anywhere. This angers me greatly, and I begin muttering unkind words to whomever it was who lost the bread.
"What are you muttering about?" my wife calls down from the bedroom.
"SOMEONE LOST THE STUPID BREAD!!"
"It's on the bread shelf in the pantry" she answers.
I can hear her smirking, as I open the pantry to find the bread.
"Stupid place for the bread. . . .", I mutter as I put a piece in the toaster.
A few minutes later, my toast pops up. Only it isn't toast, it's a piece of black lava rock. Burnt to a crisp, and shot up from the belly of hell.
"You did that on purpose!" I sneered as evilly as possible.
"What are you muttering about now?" my wife calls down.
"Nothing!! I was talking to the toaster!" I answer. I can hear the toaster smirking.
I manage to find a pair of pants and head out to my truck. I get in my truck, but then realize that it is nearly impossible to put on a pair of pants while inside the truck. I step back out of the truck and put my pants on. The neighbor gives me an odd look as he pulls out of his garage and observes me struggling with my pants in the driveway. I can hear him smirking.
Finally, with pants on, and a rock hard piece of lava toast in my mouth, I’m able to get the truck rolling down the road. I make it to the coffee shop where heaven awaits. An extra-large dark roast and a glazed donut. Like a marathon runner at the finish line, the coffee and donut mark the ending to yet another morning. . . . . I am not a morning person.
7. SECOND CHILD SYNDROME
A short time ago, my youngest daughter Natalie asked me why there were no pictures of her in the family photo archives.
"Of course we have pictures of you", I replied, and grabbed a box of pictures to prove my point.
As I began flipping through the photos, I was alarmed to find that there really were no photos of Natalie. I mean there were the normal burst of photos taken within the month or two after she was born, and a few school pictures, but then the Natalie photos seemed to just taper off to nothing. Frantically I searched three more boxes, but all I came up with was a shot of the back of her head, when she had apparently wandered into a picture I was taking of my lawn mower.
As for our first born, Hannah, there were pictures of nearly every event in her early years. There were pictures of her birth, her first week, her first month, and all the months following. There were pictures of her first solid food, her first steps, and her first bloody nose, Christmas programs, playing in the snow, rain and sun. There was even a picture of her first poop on the potty . . . . . . And not just one of her on the potty, I'm talking about a picture of the actual poop.
My wife and I didn't intentionally decide not to take pictures of our second child, nor do we love her any less than the first. I think that we are just more relaxed as parents having survived our first one. Maybe a little too relaxed.
As I thought about it, I realized that it applied to more than just picture taking. One time, Hannah had gotten some dog food out of its dish and eaten it. My wife and I panicked. We rushed her to the emergency room, convinced she would succumb to dog germs at any second. But after a few eye rolls, the doctor on duty assured us that she would pull through, and indeed she did.
So having been through a few incidents like that with Hannah, we were a little less uptight when Natalie came along. So less uptight, that when Hannah came in the front door and informed us that Natalie was eating dead bugs out of the car radiator, my wife’s only reaction was to tell Hannah to make sure that Natalie brushes her teeth when she was finished so that she wouldn't have dead bug breath.
Likewise with the pictures, after trying so hard not to miss photographing a single moment with Hannah, we realized that you just end up with mounds of pictures that make you wonder why you took them. So we were not as camera crazy when Natalie came along.
We love both of our daughters very much, but I guess we went from fretting too much with the first one, to being a little too relaxed with the second. I think if we would have had a third child, we might have been able to get it right.
8. THE SMUDGE.
I was never the kind of dad that was shy about tackling my share of the diaper changing duties, and I think I became quite adept at it.
On one particular morning, I found myself face to face with the kind of mess that every parent dreads. The poop containment properties of the diaper had completely failed, and there was "matter" everywhere. But this wasn't my first rodeo, so wielding baby wipes like a samurai warrior, I charged headlong into battle.
After ten minutes of very intense hand-to-butt combat, I declared victory, and began to put the child's onesy back on. Glancing down, I noticed a smudge of poop on the back of my left hand. It was hardly a concern in light of the toxic cleanup I had just performed, but as I reached for another wipe to remove the smudge, I noticed a second patch of poop on my right forearm.
Now I was mildly annoyed at my carelessness, so I headed to the bathroom sink to wash up to my elbows and be done with poop smudges.
After scrubbing thoroughly and drying, I glanced in the vanity mirror only to find yet another smudge of poop that was shaped like South America on my forehead. "What the. . . . ?."
Enough was enough. I stripped naked and put all my clothes and underwear into the garbage. I then took one of the most thorough showers I've ever taken in my life, washing every square inch twice.
"Well that takes care of that!" I said aloud, and headed for the fridge for a glass of iced tea.
As I raised the glass of freshly poured tea, I noticed on the glass, near the rim . . . . . a smudge of poop, and two more on the pitcher and the fridge door handle.
"Okay, you go
t me!" I said in a loud voice to whoever was running around with a bucket of poop, smudging things. But there was no one there . . . . just the click, click of the dog’s toenails as he trotted in to see what the commotion was about . . . . . with poop smudges on his ear and tail. I was dumbfounded.
In the days that followed, it spread like a virus. I found poop smudges on the carpet, the TV, the mailbox, the ceiling, and even on guys I work with, who began to resent my constant sniffing and inspecting their clothing. In fact, I'm not sure how it could be possible, but I calculated that if you were to add up the total volume of all poop smudges I had found, it would be significantly greater than the volume of the poopy diaper from which they originated.
It began to affect my sanity. Everything smelled like poop, and I saw smudges everywhere. I was having nightmares about giant poopy diapers chasing me because they wanted smear themselves all over my body. I was showering incessantly, and throwing away clothes at an alarming rate.
It's now been well over a decade since my kids have been potty trained, but I still can't shake the feeling like that one particular poopy diaper is still stalking me. I sniff things constantly for the smell of new smudges. If I notice that someone I'm talking to, is focusing their gaze on any particular part of my face or body, I instantly react, "What? . . . WHAT? . . . . . Is it poop? . . . . . Where? . . . . . Do I smell like poop?"
I'm not sure what lesson there is to be learned here. Maybe it’s that you should be really careful not to get any poop on you during a diaper change. Or maybe, if you do end up with a smudge, you might be better off embracing it, rather than getting hung up on a little poop.
9. THE HUGE BOOK OF HORRIFYING DISEASES
A while back, when my super nurse wife was going through nursing school, she came home with what I called “The Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases”. This was a book that was about four inches thick and weighed around ten pounds. Within its pages, it described nearly every disease known to man, and included all the symptoms, and had many large pictures of each disease.
One boring evening, out of morbid curiosity, I picked up the book and began to look through it. The images and descriptions of the diseases contained within the book, horrified me to my core. I played out in my head, the agonizing death that I imagined each fully illustrated disease would lead to. The images haunted me. It was then and there that I decided that I would start my disease vigil.
I developed a system by which, each night I would take the “Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases” into the bathroom, and with the aid of a hand held mirror (for those hard to see places) I would go through the entire collection of pictures and symptoms, comparing them to my respective body parts to make sure that the deadly clutches of disease weren’t sneaking up on me. And as with many of my good ideas, this left me open to the ridicule of my nurse wife.
One day, shortly after establishing my routine, I realized, on my way home from work, that I couldn’t hear out of my left ear. . . . Something was wrong! I tried not to panic, but the long lists of symptoms mentioned in the “Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases” kept flashing through my mind.
When I arrived at home, I grabbed the book right out of my wife’s hands, and ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Feverishly, I scoured the pages to find what fate awaited me. But I could find no disease with the symptom of “sudden hearing loss in left ear”. . . . . Maybe I was the victim of an undiscovered disease!
I knew I needed medical attention, so without even telling my wife where I was going (who would probably make jokes), I rushed out the door, and drove myself to the emergency room.
Once in the E.R., I described to the doctor my symptom of hearing loss in my left ear, and how I could find no mention of such a symptom in the “Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases”. With a raised eyebrow, and having checked of a few vital signs, he looked into my left ear with his lighted ear looking device.
“Hmmmm . . . . . . I see” he said.
“What is it Doc? AM I DYING?” I asked frightfully.
“Mmm . . . . . no, seems like you are suffering from a simple case of “Idiocy”, he replied while reaching into my ear with a pair of tweezers, and pulling out an ear plug that I had apparently forgotten to remove while at work.
A wave of relief swept over me, as well as a bit of embarrassment. I was also surprised that enough people had forgotten to take out an earplug at work that they had actually come up with a name for the condition. . . . .”Idiocy”.
Upon returning home, my wife demanded to know what all the panic had been about, and where I had run off to. I explained my sudden hearing loss, and that I thought I might be dying from an unknown disease. But that it had turned out to be a simple case of “Idiocy” (which I had to explain to “the nurse” wife was the condition caused by accidently leaving an earplug in your ear). And again, I had to suffer her mocking remarks as I wandered up to bed.
After the big “Idiocy” scare, I decided to become even more pro-active with my disease vigil, and made an appointment with my doctor for a thorough checkup.
At the end of the appointment which seemed like hours of being poked and inspected, the doctor came in and told me that everything looked good. He also said that as a further precaution, I should get myself tested for any cancers or heart problems that appeared in my family history. This seemed logical to me, so wanting to leave nothing to chance, I decided to call my mom the next day to find out about our families health history.
The next day, I called and asked my mom if there was any health problems in the family that I should be concerned about. The only thing she could think of was my Aunt Sarah, who had cervical cancer in 1985. Once again, the now familiar horror began to sweep over me. . . . . I was going to die from cervical cancer!
Luckily, I now had my doctor’s office on my speed dial, so I was able to reach his receptionist within seconds of hanging up from the call with my mother. I explained the situation with Aunt Sarah’s cervical cancer, and how I needed to schedule an appointment to be tested for it immediately. There was a pause on the other end of the line followed by, “Are you telling me that you want to schedule yourself for a pap, sir?”
“If that’s what the name of the test for cervical cancer is called, then yes. . . . . I want a pap”
Again there was a long pause on the other end of the line, and what I thought might be the sound of someone laughing. Finally the doctor himself got on the phone and explained that I didn’t need to be tested for cervical cancer because I didn’t have a cervix.
Relieved once again, I thanked him for his time and hung up. My wife who had caught the tail end of the phone conversation asked me what the call had been about. Reluctantly, I explained about Aunt Sarah, and how the doctor had said I don’t need to be tested for cervical cancer because I don’t have a cervix, and that I assumed that my cervix must have been removed when I was a child, and he had seen it in my medical chart.
At this point I had to stop talking because my wife was laughing hysterically. Disgusted, I grabbed the “Huge Book of Horrifying Diseases” and headed off to the bathroom with my mirror in hand.
I had had enough of the mockery. If my wife couldn’t be supportive of my disease detecting efforts, then I wouldn’t be supportive of her when she came down with some sort of necrosis or any of the other horrible diseases that were in her book. I wouldn’t help her a bit even if she came down with leprosy and all her limbs fell off . . . . . . I wouldn’t lift a finger . . . . . no pun intended.
10. OUR FAMILY JUSTICE SYSTEM
In our household there exists a justice system that parallels the system here in the United States in some ways, but also has many differences.
In our house you are not guaranteed a trial by a jury of your peers. In fact, any peers in the house will be instructed to go home before the trial begins.
There are two judges, a primary or day judge, and a secondary or evening judge.
You may be held without bail until a judge and trial is made availab
le (“you can sit in your room until your father gets home”)
You may be tried and convicted more than once for the same crime, especially if the primary judge has found you guilty and handed down a sentence, but feels that you still do not seem repentant enough. She can then order a second trial when the evening judge gets home from work, after which, a second sentence may be added on to the first.
Or, if you are found not guilty by one of the judges, you still could be found guilty by the other judge based on new evidence, or simply due to the fact that the second judge had a bad day at work and wishes to take it out on the defendants
You WILL testify against yourself when instructed to do so by one of the judges.
Sometimes being a witness (tattler) can get you into worse trouble than being the one who committed the crime.
Sometimes, the primary judge has had enough, which she will indicate by loudly stating, “I have had enough!” She may then postpone a trial until the secondary judge gets home from work, but when the secondary judge gets home from work, and is met at the door by two sobbing defendants and a primary judge who has had enough, he isn’t sure what the primary judge is expecting of him, so he will then repeat in an authoritative voice, the words that the primary judge is silently mouthing from behind the two sobbing defendants.
And finally, your punishment WILL be cruel and unusual (no TV or IPad for a week, etc…)
11. I CAN’T DO THIS!
As I slowly inched closer and closer to the speaker box, at which I would place my order, I felt a drip of nervous perspiration roll off my forehead.
"Do you know what you want?” I asked my wife.
"I can't see the menu", was the reply.