When I was a kid, I have a lot of different memories of my Dad. I remember the look on his face when my brother and I wrecked our motorcycles head on into each other. That was a doozy, and unfortunately all my fault. There was the time when he walked outside while I was mowing the grass on our old-school Snapper ride-on. He asked me if I was doing okay, since it was my first attempt at lawn wrangling. I said, “Yeah, Dad. It sure is taking a long time, though.” He then, grinning like a cheshire cat, informed me that I had been driving in the same circle for the past 35 minutes and I needed to cover a little more of the yard.
What I don’t remember my father doing much of was taking naps. On the few occasions that I recall he stretched out on the couch for a snooze, my brother and I had one very specific rule dictated by my Mom. DO NOT BOTHER THE SLEEPING DAD!!! And, being the perfect saintly angels that we were, we didn’t.
So, what have I done wrong in my ever-so-wise parenting that I forgot to pass this beautiful rule on to my 6 lovely children? Because, I am looking for a quick and effective strategy to strike the fear of GOD into them at the tought of EVER waking me up from a Sunday nap. Any suggestions?
Picture this. Mary is out of town in Philadelphia this past weekend at her cousin’s wedding. My parents had come into town to help me out. My Mom’s version of helping includes loading my kids up with candy, but hey, what are Grandparents for? Kidding! Ma! Kidding!
So, they leave the house around 2pm on Sunday and naturally, me and Gregory, Jr, the Townhall Tornado are ready for a big fat N.A.P.. Big Fat Teddy is in his crib, also napping, so I figure we are Golden. I inform the girls and they go outside to play. Easy Peasy, Lemon Squee….”DAD!!!! Emme took my favorite silly band and made a belt for a Squirrel out of it!!!”
Me: “Wha!!!??!~? Sweetie (me sweetly whispering). Gregory and I are napping. Le’ts try not to fight with your sister, okay? Squirrels are very trendy and I’m sure he appreciates the help.”
Bella: “Okay Dad”
I doze into wonderland again and start dreaming dreams of Georgia actually winning a footba…”DAD!!! Libby fashioned an authentic Iroquois spear from a branch out of our pear tree and is trying to hunt for dinner!!! DAD!!! Do you hear me!!!?”
Me: “HUAAHHHAA!! huh? Sweet Angel Face (whispering a little less sweetly), let’s just see what she brings home. Maybe it will be delicious.”
Emme: “Okay Dad.”
Falling back to sleep and thinking what Rabbit Stew tastes li…..”DAD!!! Maddie discovered the Grateful Dead on Rhapsody and is downloading every bootleg concert they ever did!!!! DAD, why aren’t you stopping her????!?”
Me: “@#$#!!! Whu?!!? “Babe (sounding a bit like Darth Vader mixed with Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’), Jerry Garcia had some interesting things to say. He also had an ice cream flavor named after him, so how bad could he be? As long as she doesn’t have access to any Hallucinagens, let’s let her check it out and I’ll take care of it when I wake up.”
Libby: “Okay Dad.”
Needless to say, some version of that happened 14.3 more times and the nap was not so nappalicious.
The only thing I can say for it is that I woke up in time to see the Falcons handle busines and beat the 49’ers with 2 seconds remaining on the clock. For that, I’d like to thank my daughters.
For the head tapping, screaming and constant crisis creation, I’d like to not thank them so much. So, I ask you. How do I become more of a intimidating figure in Casa de Owens so as to deter my little lovelies from disturbing yours truly during operation hibernation? The world may never know.
Maybe I need to start taking naps in the Attic.
Life Don’t Rhyme,
Greg “Manchild” Owens
