Women from my childhood enjoyed soap operas. During the summer when I had escaped the walls of Alcatraz, otherwise known as elementary school for a few months. My time was spent with all my favorite ladies. Either with one of my grandmothers, one of my aunts who babysat all the nieces and nephews or with my mom while she worked odd jobs helping the elderly or people with little time to keep their house in working order. One of the common themes in either of these settings was from mid- morning to early afternoon a series of soap operas would appear on most likely the only television in the household.
If you wanted to tick off one of these normally mild- mannered lovely women, try interfering with some of their screen time with even the remotely smallest of noises. Are you breathing harder than normal? Your messing with my show, I’m gonna put you out the house. Lord forbid there be any kind of noise coming from the room on the opposite end of the house. I hear yal playing back there. Take your butts outside, I can’t hear the T.V. When something would happen to one of the characters on the show, you would’ve thought it was actually one of our family members. Are you crying momma? No son, I just got something in my eye when I was dusting the ceiling fan.
Some days around the current “Rainey Residence” could be sold to some big wig in the big city to make a little cash off our craziness. I’m telling you, I can’t make some of this stuff up.
Just the other day, my youngest was complaining that she couldn’t get any of that southern sweet tea out of her cup at a local eating establishment. Being the superhero dad that I am, I thought this would be an opportunity for an easy fix that would earn me the medal of honor of parenting. What could possibly be wrong here? Did she have the straw bent too far that the liquid gold didn’t have a clear passage from the cup to her mouth? Was the straw broken in the process of unpackaging? Was her cup suddenly empty from a near dehydrated state? All of these options likely would be the cause of the problem on a normal day. Today not so much. I sucked on the straw to see if she just didn’t have enough strength to pull the remaining liquid out of the bottom of the cup. You could imagine the surprise on my face when a mass of soggy food that had been lodged came flying through the straw into my mouth like a marble out of a slingshot. We try to teach our children manners at the table. All of that probably went out the window as I spit out the tea and partially eaten cheese quesadilla into a spare bowl laying on the table.
Would DHR need to be on alert if we decided to cover this same child’s crib with some type of fencing you could purchase at your local hardware store? I mean there is no threat of suffocation with even the smallest of holes that are machined in this type of wire used to house chickens and other small animals. It’s not like we would keep her locked in for hours as some sort of punishment. This would be temporary so she couldn’t escape in the night only to sit helpless in the floor of her room until one of us brings her to our king-sized bed that already occupies the middle child as well. Her momma has threatened her with all kinds of cruel and unusual punishment: taking her baby dolls away, no YouTube kids, or even the dreaded spanking spoon. That doesn’t always work, so she has resorted to giving rewards. If you stay in your bed, I will let you eat birthday cake for breakfast or drive daddy’s F-150. How she thought those were feasible for our three-year-old, I’m not sure. Last week, we go into her room to check on her only to find her hiding under the crib with the spanking spoon. She was lightly tapping herself saying you don’t have to spank me, I’ve already done it.
Earlier today my wife asked me the score to the game. I looked through the scores on the ESPN app on my phone to find that Auburn was winning the SEC Basketball Championship game something like thirty-four to twenty-four. Being that she is a “War Eagle” fan I thought she would be thrilled to know that her team was up and was about to do something that hadn’t been done in recent basketball seasons. She gave me some kind of look when I told her the score. A comment followed, something to the effect of that seems like a lot of runs for a softball game. Silence came from my side of the vehicle. Again, another comment of disbelief and that the score resembled a football score instead of fastpitch softball game. I could have gone along with this for hours and made this story even more interesting, but I informed her that the game was indeed a basketball game with pretty big implications. I could write a book of these same type of scenarios that have been discussed throughout our marriage.
Who wants an opportunity to make a few bucks? This thing called life described in our household is definitely more entertaining than “Days of Our Lives” or my moms favorite “All My Children.”