It’s that time of the year again, where I am glad I don’t have to get up early and hustle to get kids to school on time, but I’m plagued with trying to keep said kids occupied and out of my hair. My kids have more than the average kid to keep them busy, but they’re always bored. And when they’re not bored, they’re hungry. And wouldn’t you know it, they don’t want any of the stuff I have so thoughtfully stocked the kitchen with. Is it too much to ask to be left alone so I can write?
I really don’t ask for much in this life. I’m okay sitting in the 300 section of the Staple’s Center when I go to Kings games, and I’m good with the nosebleed equivalent of most things, really. All I really need to be content is a decent cup of coffee, a bar of Belgian chocolate, and a good fuck every now and then. Well, okay, I also need an occasional alcoholic beverage and some music. Sorry, I was about to digress there for a second.
Where were we? Right! Being home with three bored, spoiled boys during their summer break, and how I want to be left alone. I suppose I could pack up and head down the street to Starbucks, or even go downtown an sit at either Molino’s or Back To The Grind where I might actually have a place to sit, but I’m afraid I would come home a few hours later to find the fire department hosing down the charred remains of my house, or come home to the mother of all messes, and utter chaos. Sure, laugh, but I’m speaking (okay, writing) the truth here. My ten year old is a curious kid who thinks he is a chemist, a chef, and the knife wielding idiot on Annoying Orange. If he would create something useful, say, a magical weight loss potion, or cookies that wouldn’t go straight to my ass, I wouldn’t say a word, but honestly, I’m surprised (and thankful) he hasn’t asphyxiated the entire household with some of the things he has mixed together and poured down the sink. I consider myself lucky to end up with just a headache.
The twelve-year-old will give me the least shit of all of them. He’ll read, stick handle in the driveway, and play PS4 or have his nose in his iPod. He’ll also leave his wrappers and trash laying around, but nothing that a little threatening won’t fix.
The sixteen year old. He does his teenager thing and spends most of his time in his room. Until he’s hungry or bored. Or wants to buy Mortal Kombat X, his father and I tell him no, and he forgets himself and turns into Mr. Hyde, and goes apeshit because he’s nearly an adult, and thinks we are way too over protective. (And here I thought we were a bit too laissez-faire with our parenting, and it was eventually going to come back and bite us on our “hip parent” asses.) Little does he know I actually talked to some gaming nerd at Game Stop about the game, and got an honest synopsis of the game – and though it sounds nothing like the Mortal Combat from the days when I was twenty, and playing it on my break with my pizza making co-workers – I was okay with him playing the game. I just don’t want his younger brothers seeing or playing the game, so I told him to just play it at his friend’s house.
Fair compromise? Not to a sixteen-year-old. I’m then told how all his friends’ parents let them have the game – you know, the meager attempt at a guilt trip. My response? “Well, I guess I love you more than their parents love them.”
Oh, welcome summer vacation! Zero weeks down, ten to go.