Today was a cold rainy Sunday and we decided to stay home from church so as to ensure the kids stay healthy for Thanksgiving. Church is a place where viruses and bacteria must find the Holy Spirit and grow in strength and purpose because most of the times my son gets sick after church. That's a whole nothing topic. So we decided to stay home and have a quiet and relaxing Sunday before the chaos of Thanksgiving week.
My wife had an awful headache this morning so most of the day consisted of me downstairs with the kids while they watched television and played games while my wife rested. A few hours ago, my daughter said she saw brownie mix in the pantry and she asked if she could make brownies. Why would a loving father reject such a request from his lovely daughter? My son, being bored of pretending to lead the Rebel Alliance against the Empire asked if he could help.
Sure, why not. They learn a little about cooking and working together and I get brownies out of the deal. Everything is going great. They scurry off to begin baking a wonderful bounty for their father. They are getting along and I am starting to get hungry. All of a sudden I hear an, "oops" and silence. I throw my book down and run into the kitchen.
This is what I find...
I take this in stride. No big deal. I still get brownies and now I have the opportunity to show a little grace to my kids. I get my dad voice working and command "Now you two have to clean up once you are done." Problem solved. Win-Win...
With a little help from their old man, the brownies enter the oven and now we need to clean up. As the future Father of the Year, I spot another growth opportunity for my son. I tell my daughter to clean up the counter and my son will clean up the floor. My son will learn how to mop tonight.
I quickly sweep the kitchen floor (more points for me with the wife) and I show my son how to use the Swiffer mop. In case you do not know what that is, it is a mop that is just a pad at the bottom, but the cool part is there is a bottle of cleaning fluid attached to the mop stick. When you pull the trigger at the handle, it squirts a bit of fluid out at the front of the mop and makes clean up a pleasure and a joy. I tell my son to pretend the sticky brownie mix on the floor is bad guys and he needs to shoot them with the mop stuff. He loves it and I leave him to grow. Again, my wife gets a clean floor, my son learns how to mop, and I get brownies. This is a great night. I am a genius.
I fall back into my book and only look up when I detect that wonderful smell of brownies being taken out of the oven. My wife came downstairs at some time during the last 20 minutes. I run into the kitchen ready to receive the hugs and kisses from my wife due to her clean kitchen floor, see the pride in my son's eyes as he knows he is a better man today, and also score a couple brownies while they are still hot. My first step into the kitchen is almost my last. There is some sort of liquid all over the kitchen. It has dried to a film in some spots, but most of the kitchen is a mess.
"What happened here?" I ask. I don't let this get in the way of my brownie pursuit. I look up with a mouth full of chocolate goodness and see my wife without the look of adoration I had expected.
"Well, your son thought it was cool that you could just hold the trigger down on the mop and the bullets would just keep coming out. He's right, it just keeps coming out."
I have no response to this.
"Don't worry, I cleaned up most of it, even though I still have a headache," my wife continues.
Again, no response comes to mind. I am left standing in the kitchen with handfuls of sweets feeling like an idiot. This was not in my plan.
I slink back to my office and decide to write a bit to get my mind off my failed plans.
About an hour later my son is playing a video game with him mom. For reasons I do not now understand, this requires the television volume to be at an ear splitting level. This particular part of the game he is on now includes a large Lego plane flying around dropping bombs that create loud obnoxious explosions. Also it appear he must shoot something that makes a very high pitch noise when hit. My son is shouting instructions to mother since he has already played this level 46 times today. Since it involves explosions and ammunition, it is his favorite part of the game and therefore he is now the expert in our house. When he thinks his mother is not listening to him, he decides to loudly spell out his instructions. This is just a sample of what I have heard....
"Look, mom, you gotta shoot the bad guys over here like I am doing. OK?"
My beautiful wife responds with, "uh huh, sure baby" and then proceeds to play the game as it was designed to be played.
"No mom, when you are over there you are supposed to jump. See like me. OK, mom? Jump. J-U-M-P. Like this. Just do what I am doing. Like me. M-E."
My wife ignores the Hooked-on-Phonics lesson and proceeds to collect colorful coins. Currently she has about 25-times the amount of coins my son has.
"Mom, I need to destroy the bad guys with fire. F-I-R-E. OK? Meet your doom. You want some of me? I like this game, Mom. It's fun don't you think. I think the plane is fun. Plane. P-L-A-N"
I hear a new sound and it appears my son's character has died.
"OK, now I am going to start over, OK? That's the way you play this game. OK, Mom? I gotta go back to base and get a gun. G-U-N."
I attempt to block this out by listening to some strange British based indie band on headphones. This works well for a time and I am able to concentrate and get some writing done. However, after about 10 minutes the music spilling into my ears begins to change. I have to stop what I am doing and listen intently. When did British Sea Power change this song? What instrument makes that noise? It comes in and out of the music. It doesn't even go with the song. I try to ignore it but the high pitch wobbly noise cuts through the dark guitar and pounding drums. I begin to question my taste in music and begin to think that all my friends are right. I am told that I listen to strange bands. I should listen to more Michael Buble and Lifehouse (who is fine, by the way. No comments about how I am an idiot since I don't love Lifehouse).
In an act of frustration I rip the headphones off and realize my daughter has decided to practice her flute in the same room that my wife and son are playing video games. In her defense, my daughter has only been playing the flute for a few months and she has improved drastically during this time. However, it is hard to describe the sound as continually pleasant. I now understand my son's need for his screaming and the volume emanating from the television. I have been listening to a Mash-up of British Sea Power's Atom and Happy Birthday by my daughter. I do not recommend this. Pitchfork would give his a 0.0 for sure. No indie street cred there.
I go in the other room and see my wife greet me with a weak smile. Her headache has reached epic proportions. How can she play a video game, get yelled at by a 7 year old boy all while listening to my daughter fumble her way through her 15th version of Happy Birthday on a flute? I smile back, give her a quick wink, grab another brownie and almost jog back to the computer where the headphones go back on and the music gets turned up a couple of clicks.
This is our relaxing Sunday evening.
Oh...as I was finishing this with the music destroying what little hearing I have left, my son decides to say "Goodnight" by sneaking up beside me and trying to scare me. It worked.
This is the family God gave me. How can He expect me to remain sane?
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