My wife and I share a bed. That’s what married couples do. But this could have something to do with our country’s current sky high divorce rate.
Don’t get me wrong, I like sleeping with my wife. But when I sleep, that’s what I do: I just sleep. It’s not quite that simple with my wife. She moves a lot. She mumbles under her breath. She piles pillows around her like she is trying to build her own Great Wall of China. And she wakes up in the dead of night and asks gripping questions like: Did you hear something?
My wife also has this thing about wrapping herself in blankets and rolling up like a human burrito. Every time my wife rolls in her sleep she takes so much of the bed with her it’s like trying to sleep through a seismic event. Each morning we have to account for the children and small animals lest they’ve been caught in the wrapping process and churned into salsa.
I just got off the phone with my dream agent!
I am beyond excited and I want to share this story with other writers!
This woman has blasted my head into the clouds. She said my writing was unique and visionary. She said it was full of wit, and delivered in a somewhat manic style.
Perhaps that’s where the conversation took a turn that left me a little pensive. She asked some of those personal questions that all writers dread. How are you supposed to answer them? Too much information and you might bore her to death. Too little and you might seem like you’re trying to hide something.
So I ‘fessed up. I can be a little manic sometimes. The doctors call it maniacal or clinical something or the other. Whatever.
Bethany had to leave town suddenly last night. I’m not one of these hopeless dads who have no real role in the day to day upbringing of their children. But this morning I had the whole “get ready for school” routine to myself. Perhaps I have the children by myself a lot, but I guess most of the time it happens on a Saturday.
Our morning started with a somewhat plodding version of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. I made coffee and listened to Wayne practice his piano. Sure, it was just after six, but he’s an early riser and it was so much better than Sponge Bob screaming at me from the TV. As Wayne continued to play, the other three children wandered out of their rooms. The music might have caused some confusion on their part. They weren’t sure where to go or what to do, and kind of stood around sleepily rubbing their eyes. I think they were looking for a Christmas tree or presents. For me, it was a little bit of heaven on Earth.
Conversation between 7 year old twins overheard at my house…..
“Yes! Dad went to the grocery. I hope he got some good food.”
“Yeah,” said Jacks. “I hope he didn’t get just beer.”
“He always gets beer,” said Wilkins. “That’s cause he is da-dicted.”
“He’s da-dicted to beer because of the nicotine.”
“There isn’t nicotine in beer,” Wilkins said.
Blogging Master: A man is standing in the middle of a huge jungle. He is picking his nose. Who is he?
Blogging Novice: Is this a riddle about Donald Trump?
Blogging Master: And his continuous quest for gold? That is a silly, trivial guess. This jungle is teeming with vicious beasts who could eat him alive. Trump likes to be master of his own domain.
Blogging Novice: Actually I was thinking of his hair rug. Wondering what kind of animal it was in its previous life.