KID COUNTDOWN: DAY 11

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I wake up in the gray morning hours and have to pee but am afraid to get up because I know if I get up, the dog is going to get up and if the dog gets up, the dog is going to have to go outside and if I open the door to let the dog outside, the alarm system on our house is going to go BEEP-BEEP, which it does to alert us every single time a door is opened and I know that when that BEEP-BEEP beep-beeps, it’s going to wake up my kids and then I’ll be awake and, frankly, I just don’t want to be awake right now.  Sleep is calling to me like a Siren and I don’t know if I can resist.

This says a lot about me as a person.  I would rather allow my bladder to explode than crawl out of bed.

Finally, unable to hold the stretching pressure in my gut any longer I get up, take the dog to the door and BEEP-BEEP.  Now I can hear the kids suddenly start to shuffle around in their room so, instead of going to the bathroom and just accepting my fate, I panic, skip the restroom, race back to bed, close the door behind me, leap under the covers and pretend like nothing is happening.

But, as we all know, sweeping problems under the rug doesn’t make them go away… it just makes for a really lumpy and disgusting rug.

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ABOVE: INSPIRED BY THE “OCCUPY WALL STREET MOVEMENT”, THEY MAKE THEIR MOVE.

The door knob shakes and then turns and in walks the blanketed duo with their usual, “I’m ah-WAKE!” and “Mornin'”.  My wife doesn’t move or grunt or make any acknowledgment of our visitors and I think to myself, “Playing hardball, eh?”

Quinn walks over to me and I lift her up onto the bed and she snuggles in with me while Rory meanders, seemingly aimless, around the room, acting like he’s lost.  I suspect that he’s still in some sort of transitional period when he places the blanket back over his head and begins moping around like a ghost.  “Rory, what are you doing?” I ask, just as he walks headlong into the dresser with a hard thunk.

He lifts up the blanket and rubs a spot in the middle of his forehead.  “Owwwww…”  He walks over to me and switches places with Quinn, who slithers off the bed.  I try to pull him in close but he says, “NO!  DON’T TOUCH ME!” and I’m almost offended because, for some reason, I feel like I’ve violated his bubble in some way.

Suddenly, my wife screams and I jolt upright.  “What’s wrong?!  Is the baby coming!?”  My wife takes a breath and says, “Where did you come from?” and I see that Quinn is standing just inches away from her face, staring at her, waiting for her to gain consciousness.  Quinn laughs and jumps up on the bed and now the party is in full swing.

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Quinn leaps onto my stomach and says, “What does a giraffe say?” and me, stumped, I say, “Uh….” and then I make noises that sound like eating grass.  She repeats the noise and says, “What does a dinosaur say?” and, well versed in dinosaur calls, I say, “GGGRRRRRR,” but it’s really throaty and menacing and not like a dog growling, which is what that word that I wrote looks like.

She repeats the noise and asks, “What does a teddy bear say?” and I say, “A teddy bear says…” and then, trying to imagine what a reasonable and realistic answer would actually be, I say, “Huuuuug Meeeee,” and Quinn says, “Okay,” and then lays down on my chest, wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a kiss.

Good morning?

No.

GREAT morning.

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