A daddy blog.
22 June 2010
Bad Idea Genes
Last night, about an hour after we put her down, the kid woke up like a shot and was screaming like bonkers for "mine pink things." Damn Wifus went in and tried to console her, but she kept screaming for her pink things.
She riggled out of the arms of her mom's nurturing but viselike grip, made a run for the closet, and started tearing her toy chest apart like a dog digging in the yard. Wifus and prior roommates have been subjected to this type of quasi-sleepwalking from me before: At times in the wee hours I'm like one of the shellshocked patients in Ted Striker's hospital room in Airplane.
A few years ago work got stressful, my wife would catch me using my pillow like it was a computer with a mousepad. I would warn the college roommate who was up at 3AM studying for a Spanish final that there were snakes hanging from the ceiling and they would fucking bite him. In high school, I would sit up in bed and do my best to keep from falling asleep because I was convinced I was actually in the middle of a lacrosse games. All fucking asshole wastes of time.
(MINE PINK THINGS turned out to be Mr. Potato Head's tongue and ears, which she needs to complete her Cthulu-style designs like the one above. Why she was terrified of not having these few particular pieces at 11 PM, I don't know. They've become more important to her since she saw Toy Story 3 and decided that the tuber and Jessie were friends. [PS. No time for your french fries, Daddy. It's time for Jessie to fly.])
Before my wife can console her or I can ever react, she breaks free and comes tearing around the corner screaming into our room screaming NOOOOO MINE PINK THINGS.
We didn't find them. She was consoled, brought back to reality and put back to bed. I'm sure this won't come up again repeatedly over the next 80 years.