Why are we all in the shower with you, mom?

I was just asking myself that same question, Wyatt.

Who decided I am allowed to be left alone for a week with three children?

Someone drunk, apparently.

Last night it stormed.  Super loudly.  It was the Donald Trump of storms.

I was all, seriously, storm, I can’t understand anything you are saying, when did you become a republican, why are we yelling!?

Jude, Wyatt, Gigi and I, huddled in one bed together.  The one I deemed to be the furthest from the old tree that will probably fall down when it’s struck by lightening and kill me in my sleep.

Which is why, come tornado season, I sleep in clean underwear and shave my armpits.

Andy was asleep in a hotel room 150 miles away.

I wanted to call him and tell him I heard something downstairs.  A murderer, probably.  They are notorious for striking during thunderstorms.

I thought of him sleeping on his snooty clean sheets, with his snooty unsticky coffee maker and his snooty unclogged toilet.

It would be nice to let him sleep.  To enjoy sheets that don’t smell kinda like pee or the carpet of a fraternity house during rush week.  To soak in that glorious REM for all it’s worth, safe from night terrors and sippy refills and me…pushing and kicking him repeatedly until he readjusts and stops snoring, so I can then attempt to fall asleep in the four second window before he starts snoring again.

Then I remembered the last time I was asleep in a hotel on my trip to New York, and Andy called me at 1:45am to ask me where I kept the bouillon cubes because he was in the mood for soup.

Hey, are you sleeping?

Yeah, is something wrong?

Is it thundering there?

I have no idea, I was sleeping.

It’s thundering here.  Maybe it’s not there yet because of the time difference.

I’m still in Ohio, I’ve explained time zones to you already, what’s going on, I am tired.

And I thought, tired?  You’re tired!? You got to hang out with your adult peers all day, none of which you had to wipe after they pooped, eat two hot meals in two restaurants without cutting up anyone else’s meat or pulling chewed up crayon out of anyone’s mouth, and now you are blissfully snoring in a clean bed, in a temperature controlled room with free porn and no tiny children crawling all up on your business when you are trying to have sex dreams about Mr. Darcy.  Do you really wanna play this game with me, Andy?

I think I heard someone downstairs say they are robbing us.

You actually heard someone in the house say out loud that they were robbing us.

I think, I mean, it thundered and the house vibrated and, like, I heard it all whispery, through the vents, like a ghost who wants revenge.

Ok, I see where this is going, it’s just a storm, I’m going back to bed, call me if you see someone in the house brandishing a weapon.

Fine, Andy, you just enjoy your Applebee’s and your king size bed, and don’t you worry about us being murdered, because I’m sure we’ll be just fine.

The next morning my mom arrived.  Andy had called her and asked her to move in for the week.

She brought two bags, 3 bottles of Pinot Grigio, one bible and five pugs.

If I was a revenge seeking ghost, I’d be fucking terrified.

 

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