We spent the weekend at my parents’ place in New Jersey where I realized something. A big house does not solve all our problems. In fact, it creates some brand-new ones. For instance, the bigger the house we inhabit, the louder we are.
“MOOOOOOOOOMMMY!!!” comes Sec’s voice from somewhere below.
“WHAAAAT?” I bellow back.
“WIIIIIIIIPE MEEEEEEEEE!”
“WHAAAAAAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
“I SAAAAAID, WIIIIIIIIIPE ME!”
“WIPE YOU? YOU WANT ME TO WIPE YOU?”
“YEEEEEEES!”
All that to discover my daughter took a dump. Good God, it’s exhausting.
It also makes bedtime even worse than usual, because every curtain call requires us ascending and descending the stairs. I don’t enjoy dropping everything to attend to their bedtime needs under the best of circumstances and I like it considerably less when it requires me activating my tired, ineffectual glutes.
“DAAAAAADDY! I’m THIIIIIIIIRSTY!”
David gets up from the couch to fill the water cup. But just as he’s opening the fridge, the call comes again, because Primo doesn’t think anyone’s heard him. Primo is not accustomed to sending soundwaves across distances which exceed ten feet.
“DAAAAADDDDY!!”
“HOLD ON!”
“WHAAAAAAT?
“I SAID, HOOOOOOOLD ONNNN!”
“Stop yelling!” I chastise David.
“He can’t hear me! Nobody can hear each other in this house!”
By the time he fills up the cup and gets up the stairs Primo has panicked and is screaming his head off -- emergency screams now rather than run-of-the-mill screams.
“DADDY! MOMMY! DADDY! WHERE ARE YOU? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME”
It’s like a three-ring circus. But I have to say, it does make me appreciate our tiny apartment where you never have to walk the floors in search of a family member, because they are always within your field of vision.
You know what they said? Mo’ rooms, mo’ problems.
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