When I was 24, I had a crush on Josh Groban,
Feel free to stop reading. What can I say, the heart wants what it wants.
I had this fantasy that I’d go to LA (unlikely) run into him at a Starbucks, (even more unlikely) and that he’d fall instantly in love with me (most unlikely of all). Then he’d dedicate “You Raise Me Up” to me in concert and the rest would be history.
Then I met and fell in love with Eric, and I had this fantasy of a house full of kids and dogs. Now I’m here, in that house full of kids and dogs, and most of my current fantasies involve all the ways I can get back at my kids for the shenanigans they pull.
The first thing I’m going to do is find a small creature to live with us. Maybe a dog, maybe a cat, maybe a raccoon, maybe a feral neighborhood child. Then, when my teenage children try and go to the bathroom or take a shower, I will send this creature in with a list of demands. If they ask it to leave, I will make it return 45 seconds later. Every 45 seconds until they give up on their shower.
Next, I will go into their bedrooms somewhere between the hours of 2 and 5 AM. It won’t be every night, in fact I’ll stop just long enough for them to think it’s over, and then I’ll start again. On these trips into their rooms I’ll wake them up for important reasons, like the fact that my socks hurt my feet, or that my third tooth from the back feels funny.
Some nights I’ll switch it up, and instead of going into their rooms, I’ll just lie in my own bed and yell. When they finally come in to check on me, I’ll hit them with something profound like the fact that I heard a noise from my closet that I’m pretty sure is a Panda or a T Rex.
If it’s not the middle of the night, another option will be to walk in while they’re watching TV with their friends, and ask them to look at this spot on the inside of my lip, and is it a sore or is it food and what color is it?
I hope they develop an interest in cooking, and when they do, I hope they cook me a wonderful meal.
As soon as they set the plate down in front of me, I’m going to declare that it’s disgusting because I don’t like the way it looks or smells. If they ask me to try it, I will, but I’ll make sure to gag and spit it back out.
Then I’ll spend the next three hours complaining about how hungry I am and how there’s nothing to eat.
I plan to wet my pants when we’re halfway to an activity they really want to do, so we have to turn around, go home and miss the activity.
I will beg them to let me come to Great America with them and their friends, and then spend the whole time complaining about how tired my legs are from all the walking.
When they find a book they’re really into, I’ll run in and bat it out of their hands at four minute intervals. When they find a podcast they’re really into, I’ll take the opportunity to practice singing America the Beautiful at the top of my lungs.
I can’t wait. It’s going to be a glorious, glorious stage of life. Until then, I’ll turn on some Josh Groban, sip some wine, and wait for the first one of them to wake up tonight.
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