I was feeling stressed a few nights ago. I wanted a quiet place to just be. There had been a lot of thinking throughout the day and I was quite tired. My wife, though tired herself, insisted I go. I think she was hoping that I would evolve just enough to use words and phrases instead of occasional grunts and gestures.
Thag go cave.
Our son was playing quietly and our daughter was cooing and watching the trees outside our back window. It was almost idyllic – I could imagine them on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. It was that beautiful. Somewhere deep down, I was vaguely aware of it, but all I could produce were muffled gargling sounds and a weak smile.
Can you please go upstairs now?
With all quiet on the Western Front, I made a break for it. Break may be too strong of a word. I dragged my own carcass down the hall to the stairway. Because my wife has the children all day, I made it a point to avoid groaning or other Neanderthal noises that could be construed as an attempt at sympathy. I’m an devolved life form, not a complete jerk.
Finally arriving in my office chair, I attempted a quick transformation via Wikipedia. I was not successful. I tried to watch TV, but there was nothing on worth watching. M*A*S*H* is on 22 out of 24 hours in a day on some channel somewhere, but this was in that magic time slot taken up by actual programming.
Thag hate media.
At some point, I settled into the papa-san chair and watched the trees outside like my daughter. This was very successful. My daughter is smart like my wife.
After practicing a few monosyllables and even a disyllable word or two, I felt ready to rejoin the family. As I approached our living room, I heard our son talking and playing and having a good time.
Thag is happy. Talk with wife. Wife pretty.
When I came into the living room, I was greeted with something I couldn’t quite explain. It would take more than grunts, so I asked my wife to comment. My wife explained that she was feeding our daughter and had just noticed that the house had gotten very quiet. Looking around, she happened to see a tiny hand reaching up and then…
(It’s a big file, so be prepared)
We laughed out loud for a good five minutes. Our son would look over at us and smile with pride that he had made his parents happy. However, the Oat Rings required his attention, so he would return to cooking with them. Cooking, to my son, is pouring the same twenty or thirty from one bowl to another. Occasionally, he samples one or two to make sure the flavor is right.
Needs more mixing, he says as he begins pouring them in five different pots and pans.
Amused, I begin to pick them up and put them into a container. My wife’s son at this point decides that he will take up farming. He gracefully picks up a handful and thoughtful scatters them like a man sowing seeds. He doesn’t want to sow the oat rings he’s sitting on, he wants to sow the one I had just picked up.
I turn it into a game and he starts to help me put them into a container. However, I am slower than he, so when the container fills up, he went back to sowing seeds with both hands.
I got to sow the north forty acres by sundown
After a while, I sow oat rings with him. Why fight a good idea for having fun, I think. My wife then laughs at both of us. She must really like having two boys in the house. It is so much fun.