I have discovered a drug more potent than sugar to the physiologies of little toddlers.
Van Halen.
Yesterday morning I faced the unpleasant task of unloading the dishwasher, filling it with a sink full of dirty Thursday night dishes and cleaning the counters of breakfast debris. The Little One was finishing homework, Patch was coloring in a picture of Spongebob, and the wife was downstairs in her office. Sick of the ever-present drone of Nick Jr, PBS Kids, Disney, and the Cartoon Network, I turned off the teevee, went to the Bose radio, flicked through a stack of CDs, and put Fair Warning on. Then I commenced work on the kitchen.
By the fifth track, “Unchained,” the living room was completely trashed.
Trashed like an early-80s hotel room the morning after Eddie, Alex, Michael and David Lee check out.
Little One had stripped down to her undies. Patch was just in a diaper. Pillows from the couch were strewn everywhere. Both were running around in circles, cackling, whooping, throwing stuffed animals and toys everywhere. It sounded like a herd of hippos break dancing on March ice. I made the mistake of walking in the room, mouth agape, incredulous, and nearly wound up involuntarily body surfed.
Finally, I got to the CD player and shut it down. It took about thirty seconds for the girls to realize the music stopped.
We cleaned up. I finished the kitchen, Little One finished her homework, Patch moved on to this and that. I told ’em it was time to get ready for school, and I’d get them dressed once I checked my email.
Downstairs, logging on to the PC, I told the wife that it was like pure sugar cane was somehow injected directly into their brains. Then we exchanged an ominous glance as the opening notes of “Mean Street” filtered down through the ceiling.
Ahhh!
Parents of little ones, you have been warned.
Van Halen.
Yesterday morning I faced the unpleasant task of unloading the dishwasher, filling it with a sink full of dirty Thursday night dishes and cleaning the counters of breakfast debris. The Little One was finishing homework, Patch was coloring in a picture of Spongebob, and the wife was downstairs in her office. Sick of the ever-present drone of Nick Jr, PBS Kids, Disney, and the Cartoon Network, I turned off the teevee, went to the Bose radio, flicked through a stack of CDs, and put Fair Warning on. Then I commenced work on the kitchen.
By the fifth track, “Unchained,” the living room was completely trashed.
Trashed like an early-80s hotel room the morning after Eddie, Alex, Michael and David Lee check out.
Little One had stripped down to her undies. Patch was just in a diaper. Pillows from the couch were strewn everywhere. Both were running around in circles, cackling, whooping, throwing stuffed animals and toys everywhere. It sounded like a herd of hippos break dancing on March ice. I made the mistake of walking in the room, mouth agape, incredulous, and nearly wound up involuntarily body surfed.
Finally, I got to the CD player and shut it down. It took about thirty seconds for the girls to realize the music stopped.
We cleaned up. I finished the kitchen, Little One finished her homework, Patch moved on to this and that. I told ’em it was time to get ready for school, and I’d get them dressed once I checked my email.
Downstairs, logging on to the PC, I told the wife that it was like pure sugar cane was somehow injected directly into their brains. Then we exchanged an ominous glance as the opening notes of “Mean Street” filtered down through the ceiling.
Ahhh!
Parents of little ones, you have been warned.
Love it! I can actually picture it! I think Santa needs to bring them guitars! Always....
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