When it rains...

It felt like things really started falling apart on Easter afternoon. That's when I made my audacious attempt at lying down on my bed, fully dressed in my "Easter best (polo and khakis)," in search of the ever-elusive ten minute nap. It actually seemed like it was going to work out, too. Beth even got down for a moment. Then, in the span of about a nanosecond, here's how it all was foiled:

1. Courtney started crying from her crib next door. Not a big deal. I figure she was hungry. "Do you want me to get her?" I asked, with absolutely no authority or intent behind it. "Yes," answered B. Shit. Maybe if I just lie here, Beth will realize that the baby needs to be fed, and she's the person to do that right now, and I can keep napping. Wait...success!

2. The phone rings. It's my mother in law. Take those two sentences, repeat them about 87 times, and that's what it's like around here over a typical three or four days. The M-I-L has a hideous two-pronged telephonic attack technique that makes me want to cultivate a drug habit. First off, she always, without fail, every single time, finds the need to call five minutes after she was just here. Maybe I'm a son-in-law cliche for it, but I find this a bit of an annoyance. Secondly, and even more painfully, I think she must have installed some sort of pressure-sensitive feature onto my pillow that connects to her home phone and alerts her when my head lays down, because again, WITHOUT FAIL, EVERY GOD DAMN TIME I try to sneak a nap, she calls. And we're not talking about a lot of occurrences here. I just don't get those chances anymore. A couple of times a month, maybe. And the damn phone rings every single time.

3. Within mere moments of all this going on, Beth has gotten up, grabbed the baby, and gone downstairs to let the mutts in. They spent the day outside on Easter, which they do only occasionally. They're fine with it. They are dogs, and sometimes we even treat them as such. Previously mentioned dear M-I-L took it upon herself to find the empty dog water bowl--without any dogs in the house--and fill it to Niagran proportions. I have no idea why, but she felt oddly compelled to take a big, empty bucket that had nothing to do with anything, and to fill it to overflowing. For dogs that were not in the house to drink it. Does everyone see where this is going?

4. The thirsty/hungry/neglected/annoyed dogs bolt into the house. I'm actually still trying to fight through that nap at this juncture. This quickly ended when I heard, from all the way downstairs, clear as a bell: "Fucking asshole dog. FUCKING ASSHOLE DOG!" I'm a betting man, so my mental wager is that Pedro, our older mutt, has made some sort of fluid-related violation. My nomination of which particular canine is quickly validated, as his brother makes a beeline for my side of the bed, cowering there on the adjacent floor in full-on "I didn't do anything" mode.

5. Yeah. Pedro yakked all over the floor because of the big, full water bowl.*

*6. I'm not sure where to put this one, but since it is also related to the M-I-L fucking with drinks that have nothing to do with her, now looks good as a pseudo-footnote. On late Sunday morning, before Na'Nan and Aimee came over to celebrate Easter, I was already hurting. I had that infection going last week, and as it has done once or twice before, it ended up causing a pinched nerve in my back that really kills. So I took a painkiller to sleep and decided that a nice, heavily spiked iced coffee was just the ticket to help me get things rolling Sunday. Beth and I tossed back and forth a couple of jokes about her mother's relationship with alcohol, one in which Aimee is not so much on the wagon per se, but clinging madly to some out of control alcohol carriage.

Cut to: The M-I-L's arrival. I've got my big Bailey's and iced coffee working in a Red Sox pint glass. It is opening day after all. I'll say, being somewhat generous, that M-I-L was inside the domicile for about seven seconds when her beady eyes laser-locked on my glass. "Ooooh, what's that?" she asked, practically rubbing her little nicotine-stained hands together. "It's Daddy's coffee," I say, somehow thinking that the use of a paternal pronoun will lend even more ownership to my beverage. No such luck. "Let me try," she says, flinging her frail body across the room, landing on the breakfast table in a flying leap, scrawny fingers clutching my beloved glass.

(Okay, maybe not exactly like that. But that's how it felt.)

"I'd be happy to make you one," I counter, which any idiot should take as "Get your filthy fucking paws off my drink." She did not hear it as such, and quickly grabbed my half-full coffee and took an all-too-healthy pull. "Ooooh, that's good," she purred. At this point Beth enters. If I had planned to write how this all was going to go down, I could not have come up with it myself. And if I had, I surely would have thrown it out as being too sensational and completely impossible to believe. But it happened. I just grabbed my drink, turned tail, and left, a twitching ball of wide-mouthed, silent words. We laughed about it later. I think.

So here we are on Tuesday night. AJ was out sick today after racking up a temp north of 102 this morning. Courtney clearly isn't herself either, and is probably catching the express train that already knocked out the poor boy. I had an afternoon appointment at the doc because my back now kills when I do any of the more mundane things I'm required to do during the day, like, say, pick up my daughter. Beth had a huge day at work and still came home at lunch so I could go get my shot and some meds. It didn't clear things up right away. It hurt, and it still aches, and open my return the only way to soothe my daughter was holding and bouncing her in a way that makes the back worse. Totally worth it. Shortly after five, I take her downstairs for a quick feeding. AJ is being great despite clearly not feeling well--he and I launched a rare quadruple-header of movies earlier, and the poor boy should be bouncing off the walls by now, but he's chilling like a champion. It's quiet. A little too quiet. Maybe I'll lie down and stretch my back for a minute. Flat on my bed really does feel best of all. Yup, that's just what I'll do. I might even fall asleep for a minute before we need to get AJ's dinner. This could work. Ahh, yes. The back feels better. It's quiet. I'm absolutely going to nod off for a brilliant five minute snooze.

And then the phone rings...