My cellphone, which charges next to my bed and doubles as my alarm clock, rings at 6:29 this morning. I know it’s an actual call because the alarm is some bizarre rainforest sound thing that makes me want to commit phonicide. Or get up and shut it off. With blurry, half-asleep, and prescription-free sight, I make out my husband’s name on the caller ID.
Him: It’s time to get up.
Me: You’re supposed to call your brother, not me. (My night-owl BIL requested a wake-up call for an early appt.)
Him: It’s 6:30 and you’re not up yet.
Me: So you’re calling me from downstairs?
So I got up, made him breakfast (although I viciously stuck him with oatmeal rather than scrambled fake eggs and toast). The Tall Kid staggered down and glued himself to the morning news scroll. Then…the Short Kid. Now, we’re a family of button pushers. We will mess with each other’s minds given the slightest opportunity.
The Short Kid has been a die-hard Obama supporter since the man announced his candidacy. Die-hard to the point yesterday he informed the school staff he was dropping out of elementary school after the mock election went in favor of McCain. He got up every ten to fifteen minutes last night with totally bogus excuses just to get an electoral status update. For some reason, perhaps because I’d been rudely awakened by an annoying phone call, I decided to push his buttons when he careened down the stairs, eyes still at half-mast.
Him: Who won?
Me: Obama won the popular vote, but the Electoral College gave it to McCain.
Umm…holy crap. Postal would be a good adjective. Or what were those totally insane warriors? Berserkers? I think he might have even cursed, but he was ranting too loud and too fast to be sure. Then, before I could tell him I was just kidding, he started beating the crap out of his brother. (Who, you might remember, is infamous in our house for his gulping down of the pro-Electoral College Kool-aid his teacher’s been serving up.) Fortunately his brother was laughing too hard to retaliate at first, because he’s got 5 1/2 years, at least a foot and a half and maybe eighty pounds on him, but then he took an uppercut.
It pretty much went downhill from there.
Despite my having confessed—which he verified with a quick jaunt to cnn.com—the Short Kid’s communication with me was still limited to grunts and black looks come school time, although he did reluctantly allow me to kiss him goodbye.
Whew. Can my real day start now?