The day the downstairs AC went out and my five years old snuck downstairs WAY after bedtime to find us sharing an intimate moment on the couch.

Conversation that followed…
Me: buddy what are you doing out of bed?
Texas: I smelled popcorn and you guys know I can’t resist the smell of popcorn.
Me: it’s way past bedtime
Texas: Dada where are your clothes?
Zach: they’re right here buddy I just got so hot I had to take them off
Me: here’s your popcorn lets get upstairs now
Texas: ok but you guys were just watching commercials without clothes – that’s weird.
Me: yes parents are weird sometimes.

I have found a new past time – watching medical procedures on YouTube. Basically anything being extracted – black heads, tonsil stones, impacted sinuses or ears, cyst draining – 100% in control, 100% absolute resolution.

It is black and white. Infected and clean. Full of puss and then empty and stuffed with white sterile gauze. Where others see disguising infection and feel nauseated – I see absolution and a sense of immediate relief.

I think there is something hard wired into men that switches on when they have kids. I like to think of it as the Phil Dunfee Factor, a totally normal man becomes the king of puns and corny jokes after he procreates.

This evening I heard a ruckus from the bedroom that involved Texas screaming “don’t get my spizzy dada!”. I assumed I was not hearing correctly until a few moments later I heard Z say “you better watch out boy or I’ll get your spizzy”. Any thus begins another elaborate dad-hoax that only a four year old would fall for but that requires constant discussion between Texas and me.

This leads me to my next point – since we all know I can’t suspend reality with my child or just go along with these games because I am terrified he is going to be labeled as dullard at school because he is trying to show people his spizzy – I hear myself giving commentary like “why do you believe anything dada says” or “no – dada is not going to take your spizzy because it does not exist”

Either way that leaves me as either a raging un-fun bitch or the killer of imaginative play. Neither option is appealing but try as I may I will never be able to stomach convincing my child he has a detachable body part called a spizzy growing out of his neck. >

It is just after 9 pm on a Monday night and I am the last one up in the house (save a few hermit crabs). While the boys sleep the house comes alive – every room has its own sounds.

My bedroom is a duet of dueling snores – Zach and Buster in sweet harmony. Texas’ room has the gentle purr of his night light stars as the nocturnal hermit crabs tap their shells against the glass of their tank as they wake up for the day.

The playroom is alive with chirping crickets – that we feed the lizards and has a faint rustling of the paper birds hanging from the ceiling that move when the air conditioner comes on – another sound.

Downstairs is the ice maker, occasional toilet noise and kitty feet as they play – awake and on high alert fueled on by the upstairs cricket choir.

Outside is the periodic noise of neighbors rolling their trash and recycling to the curb every few minutes – pick up happens around 6:45 am every Tuesday. I can hear the occasional horn or acceleration from cars and if I open my door I catch the faintest bit of our neighbor’s piano.

These noises are soothing and comfortable. These noises mean home and the status quo. Garbage comes on Tuesday. Zach and the dog snore. Crickets chirp and hermit crabs tick-tick-tick against the glass walls. Texas sleeps under noisy stars and we will have ice tomorrow. All is well.

So this morning while we were all laying in bed trying to get motivated to start our showers, teeth brushing and normal daily routines Texas announced that he was the king. I quickly chirped in that I would like to be the princess and Z of course decided that he would be the warbeast (insert eye roll here for boy things). I told Texas that he should be the king of something to which he replied that since he was planning to be a scientist it made sense that he was the king of science.

After a brief pause to contemplate Texas asked to be a guard instead. When I asked why he said “because guards get to fight in battles” – (insert a glare at Z for introducing G.I. Joe into our lives). I pointed out that being the king is WAY better (and more important) than being a guard because all the fights worth fighting happen with your brain and not your braun.

He begrudgingly gave up his fighting aspirations soon after more contemplation on the power of royalty versus support staff and as we left for the day he gently patted Z on the head and said “good warbeast – i’ll see you when we get home.”

I know I am likely in the minority on this one but my kid is almost 5 and has never watched a local news broadcast or seen a mainstream TV show that does not feature the word – junior – behind it. Why? Because everything is so ugly and mean out there. What is wrong with jokes that don’t have a punch line that belittles people or shows minus people with weapons? I have never happened upon a gun fight or car explosion so why would I want my child – with limited cognitive skills watching it? People have said I am protecting him from the “real world” – are you f@&king kidding me? We live in the suburbs – markedly devoid of explosions, high speed chases and the constant threat of bodily harm around every corner. I live in the “real world” and it’s just not that ugly.

So throughout my twenties I ferociously mocked the act of ‘thumbing’. This was a word I assigned to men who repeatedly move their thumb over their date’s skin in one place – think hand holding at dinner, movie theaters, a hand on the back while waiting in lines.

To me thumbing is one of the most annoying and anxiety producing feelings in the world. Someone rubbing a single patch of skin until it is uncomfortable is an apathetic show of affection – half-hearted, like bringing a single rose or even worse – carnations.

So as karma would have it, in retribution for my many anti-thumbing rampages, I have given life to a thumber. He is world-class, top of the heap, hands down the most meticulous and persistent thumbing aficionado I have ever encountered. Each night as I tuck him in the thumbing begins as a combination of methodically rubbing and picking at a slightly raised freckle on my left upper arm. And the dance begins of me moving his hand, saying ‘owww’, moving his hand again and finally saying ‘STOP that hurts mommy’. Which is always followed with a very sweet yet I am convinced diabolical, ‘why mommy?’.

Some nights it gets so bad I actually want to leave the room. But then I realize my little guy won’t want to thumb me forever. So think of me each night around 7:30 pm CST getting my due with my tiny thumbing master.

So while getting terribly ill in a Memphis hotel that shall remain nameless – I became oddly familiar with the occupant of what I can only assume is room 801 or 803 directly above me. First of all – I am quite intrigued by a grown person who has so many – marbles? Coins? Chiclets? Super-loud-when-they-hit-the-tile-floor-things in their possession. Whatever you repeatedly drop on the floor or in the bathtub en masse several times a day, I have to say the decibel level is impressive.

Secondly, good for you for keeping in shape on your travels. While I am sure it is something far cooler – in my NyQuil induced stupor I imagine you doing prancersize with your pockets full of marbles, spitting chiclets into the bathroom and seeing how many coins you can bounce from your tile floor into your tub. I also picture you in a polyester leisure suit with an oddly festive bandana on your head – we’ll assume the NyQuil is at play in the later visual.

So tonight Texas wanted me to tell him for the millionth time why he can’t have a brother. Just like every other time I explained that Dada had a surgery that keeps him from having babies. This time (inching ever closer to 40) I added that I was getting too old and my eggs were old. Toddler mind blown. First of all the idea that I have tiny eggs somewhere inside of me was almost too much and then the idea that they were perhaps rotting – needless to say we talked the whole rest of the way home about my eggs. In an attempt to move the focus from my aging eggs I mentioned that Dada could not provide sperm which is also needed to make brothers. Totally backfired (imagine that).