There was hysterical screaming and crying, but that happens way later in this story.
The story starts closer to here:
It had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, the likes of which Alexander was not yet old enough to imagine. If you don’t know who Alexander is, then you should really hit the children’s section of the library soon and see all the literature you’ve missed.
I poked angrily at the angel hair pasta on my dinner plate as I wrote up a classified ad in my head. You see, Alexander didn’t know what a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day really was because he was not yet a parent who had chosen to homeschool his children.
Homeschooling is great and all. Ask me tomorrow and I will tell you how awesome it is and how amazing the children are doing. But not today. Today is a That’s it, I’m done! They are getting on the school bus to get a dumbed-down indoctrinating public school education that is the god forsaken right of every American child! sort of day.
I will calm down. I always do. And I suspect those little squabbling rascals know it. But the point is that at dinnertime I had not yet calmed down, and I was writing my ad for the classifieds.
Big Dog Seeking New Loving Home
Comes with 6 months’ worth of very expensive high quality kibble and a female human master.
Big Dog is willing and able to eat the faces of your enemies.
Female human is willing and able to cook food that she will allow you to also eat.
Big Dog enjoys intimidating golf cart drivers and delivery men.
Female human enjoys documenting the lives of the beings around her by way of writing random posts on Hive which you will inevitably star in. But only if you do something really annoying, silly, or stupid. Trust us, you will.
Serious inquiries only.
For your application to be considered, you must have a not entirely condemned Victorian house somewhere near a spring located in Central Florida, ideally more than twenty miles from the closest big box store.
Big Dog sat patiently next to me, and I knew that we were on the same page, and that he wasn’t just interested in the ground beef in my tomato sauce.
I decided soon thereafter that it would be a good idea to burn off some steam on the exercise machine, which I have named The Snowless Ski Machine 3000. My neighbor out of the blue offered it to me a while back. He’s the grouchy retired corrections officer. When he offered it to me, in his serious manner, his eyes were saying something like: Good god, you homeschool them? You are going to need some endorphins. Here, take The Snowless Ski Machine 3000.
The Snowless Ski Machine 3000 is a real beast. It stands in the corner of my bedroom beckoning, always ready. And it never fails me. It never annoys me. And after 15 minutes I am drenched in sweat, and I always think Snowless is a little proud of himself afterward.
I made it to 14 minutes when the sound of hysterical screaming and crying came to my ears, despite the headphones. Yeah, I’m finally back to that part of the story.
I went into the dining room to find the boy in hysterics while sitting at the table, staring at a plastic machine sitting in front of him. Someone gave the boy for Christmas a model of an engine, which you put together piece by piece. The boy had what looked like a pretty hefty accomplishment before him. The thing looked nearly complete.
“What on earth is wrong?” I said with alarm.
He started flailing his arms in a hysterical gesture toward the plastic machine in front of him. Finally, after several incomprehensible attempts at words, he managed: “A piece came off inside! Now I have to take it apart all over again!”
I suddenly had a flashback to all the times the men in my life—my father, my brother, my husband—had been working on their vehicles, and how it always involves at least one instance of a tool making a harsh clanging sound as it was slammed down onto a hard surface, followed by a stream of expletives. Vehicle repair is apparently a very infuriating job, which is precisely why I let those suckers do it instead of learning it myself.
“Aw, this is his first car repair tantrum,” I said to Big Dog, who was looking on with consternation. We were witnessing a milestone in the boy’s slow transition toward manhood, and it was lovely.
And it was then and there that I decided that I was not going to publish my ad. Big Dog clearly would miss the kids too much. And I suppose so would I. And I suppose I will continue to homeschool them.
Besides, I couldn’t leave my wonderful husband. The kids would eat him alive.
And so it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night for the boy and his engine. I hopped in the shower, ate three chocolate truffles, and decided it wasn’t such a bad day after all.