Tuesday, October 16, 2007
A Tale of Two Kings
My husband feels a strong kinship with "The King," because the two share the same birthday. They are both Kings in their own rights. . .one, "The Rock 'n Roll King." The other, "The Drama King."
Tonight I took Hattie out for a little girls' night on the town, first to an awesome local education store, where I purchased a few new primers for the kids, and then on to Barnes and Noble. Cliff's duties were fairly simple: to man the house, put Paloma to bed, hang with Atticus, put him to bed. As a bonus, he lovingly offered to clean the kitchen (which, in all my wifely wisdom, I realize was probably a ploy at securing some fun tonight but hey, if he thinks he needs a clean kitchen thrown into the bargain, I'm not complaining!).
25 minutes after Hattie and I left home, Cliff phoned to proudly announce that the baby was already in bed! One down, one to go! He and Atticus were going to have a bit of father/son bonding over a motorcycle racing game, and then off to bed for the little man.
Upon leaving B&N, I gave a ring home. Cliff answered, and I could hear Atticus in the background. "Babe, it's almost 9! Time to get that kid in bed!" I reminded.
"Oh," he said.
Then feebly added, "I got motion sick from the motorcylce racing game, so I've been lying on the floor for the past half hour. I'll put him to bed now."
I came home, and Cliff greeted us at the door. Hunched over. Like a 100-year old man. Panting. Just like they do in Lamaze class, which is totally funny, because he certainly didn't remember one lick of it when I was in the midst of labor!
Drama King? Let's see. . .
I walk into the kitchen, and am greeted by this mess:
I turn around to look into the family room, where I gaze upon this atrocity.
"Sorry about the mess, hon." Cliff pants, leaning against a kitchen chair.
I mean Full Weight-Bearing Lean. As in the last time I have seen anyone lean against a chair like this was when I was in the throes of backlabor, trying to keep myself upright while vomiting into a hospital's wastebasket, just prior to delivering the Drama King's son, who came out with a head circumference in the 150th percentile.
I smile nicely and say nicely (man, how I have matured in just 7 years of marriage!), "Don't worry, honey. . .if you could just take Hattie upstairs for her bedtime routine, I will gladly clean this up in a jiff," (yes, I used the word 'jiff.' No, I'm not making any of this up.)
So 10 minutes later I wrap up in the kitchen, head upstairs and find this sorry sight:
I put Hattie to bed while Cliff crawls downstairs. Literally. Crawls. I saw him, but didn't have my camera out in time. I go downstairs to find him in the family room: