The Norwegian Widower - Day 7

Desperate to squeeze in a few extra minutes of sleep, I set my alarm for 6:55 instead of this week’s normal 6:45 (and compared to Kacey’s 6:30).  Tito took care of that, however, when he came in a few minutes before my alarm was to go off and said, “Wake up, Dad!”  I certainly need to beg Big Daddy to come over and install a lock on the door.

I was in an absolute daze as I staggered down to the kitchen.  I set the frying pan on the burner, stared at it blankly, and then sprayed it.  This was, of course, before turning on the gas.  So, when I figured out how to turn on the burner, the gas heated up the pan and made the spray somewhat black.  Tito’s eggs thus ended up a mixture of yellow and black, kind of a like a bumblebee or one of the guys from the 1980’s Christian hard rock band Stryper.  I tried to hide the discolored eggs with his toast, which must have been at least partially successful as he ate most of his breakfast.

As I was making Tito’s lunch, I asked him where his lunchbox was, which led to this exchange:

“I don’t know, I must have lost it at school.”

“What do you mean?  How did you lose it at school???”

“Dad…nobody is perfect.”

I had no comeback for that one. 

Coming off a long weekend, I let Bitsy sleep in a while longer than usual.  And when I woke her up, she asked for just “twooooo morrrrre minutesssssss” to sleep.  How could I say no, especially when she fell back asleep right before my eyes and I watched her mouth drop open and her breathing become deeper.  Eventually, I had to wake up her Royal Cuteness.

Using the timer to get her to take her medicine worked yet again, although it was quite comical to listen to her cough, gag, and sound like she was being stabbed to death while putting those whopping 40 milligrams in her mouth over a period of eight minutes.

As soon as I got home after dropping her off at school, I was back in bed and comatose.  The dang alarm clock went off 90 minutes later, as I had a meeting to attend at St. John’s.  Just as I was leaving my house, I noticed that our sink was plugged.  There have been issues with our sink and garbage disposal lately, apparently it does not like the combination of leftover beef and hot water.  Oh well, perhaps I can leave it until Kacey gets home and then when the sink fills up on her, I can pull a Chris Farley in Tommy Boy and yell, “Hey, what did you do to our sink?!?!”

My meeting at school went quite well considering the person who called the meeting didn’t show up.  My 80 mile trek was not a total failure, however, as I visited John, the subject of my sabbatical.  I hadn’t talked to him since the beginning of the football season.  Everyone has been asking him if he is going to retire, so we brainstormed some comical answers he could start giving to reporters.  Our favorite one…the head football coach at Hamline University just resigned, perhaps to pursue Bigfoot on a full time basis (he is an expert on Bigfoot, no lie).  John and I decided he should announce that he is leaving St John’s and has signed a 10 year contract to turn around the Hamline squad. 

I got back from school and plopped down on my easy chair to do some consulting work.  After a bit, the kids reminded me that it was my responsibility to provide them with dinner, so I decided to cook up some Denny’s.  It was a delightful dinner full of “would you rather” questions (one of our family’s favorite activities) and discussion with the 85 year old widow in the booth next to us – I am pretty sure she wanted to adopt me by the end of our chat. 

After dinner, we picked up Bitsy’s new eyeglasses and upon putting them on for the first time, she felt like the blind man healed by Jesus and shouted, “I can see!”  But unlike the miracle in the book of Mark, no one needed to spit on her eyes.

One thing that I noticed in this experience as a single dad is that supplies are not endless in one’s house - you actually have to shop for toilet paper, it doesn’t magically keep appearing in the bathroom.  Thus, we stopped by Walmart to pick up a variety of things, including a small waste basket for used cat litter.  After spending 10 minutes looking 8-gallon sized garbage bags, but finding only about 400 different varieties of 13-gallon sized bags, I gave up and began to leave. 

As we passed a nearby aisle filled with treats, the kids launched into a tale of desperation.  I told them they could pick out a treat only if they could find 8-gallon sized bags.  60 seconds later, Bitsy surfaced while holding the bags and put her treat into the cart.  “What kind of treat is that?” I asked as I gestured toward the box of whatever she selected.  “Something really good,” she replied, “and that is all you need to know.”

We arrived home and I successfully made the kids brush their teeth before tucking them in around nine thirty.  Although I probably should have just gone to bed as well at that time, I did some work and made a poor attempt at writing until I finally called it a night at half past one.  This time, I didn’t even bother with my own cat-infested bedroom, I went straight to the guest room.  We have some friends coming in town this weekend, and they may be disappointed when I tell them that the guest room bed is taken.  And I may not even let Kacey join me, as she'd probably bring the sleep-depriving-furballs with her.

 

And to think I once paid good money to go to a Stryper concert, and my brother and I would spend hours debating whether "To Hell with the Devil" or "Honestly" was a better tune.

RIP Chris Farley.