I got busted. Not by the cops for any type of illegal activity such as using a lasso to catch a fish, or bringing skunks into the state—which are actually laws on our books—but by Sweet Pea for breaking curfew.
I didn’t know I had one, but I learned Saturday night that apparently I do. I got quite frightened when I received her text stating that I was an hour past curfew and we would “discuss the consequences for my actions in the morning.” I personally think getting up early after a late night out to cook a complete breakfast for five crumb snatchers is punishment enough.
Chief Money Maker had to travel last week, and will be travelling for the next two weeks. Every time he goes out of town some catastrophe befalls our household. This past summer the air conditioning went out in the midst of a record-breaking heat wave. Last winter the microwave blew up with a sound that resembled what the residents of Three Mile Island heard back in 1979. This past week, one of our dogs ingested something that warranted a trip to the doggie emergency room at midnight. And one time, I ran completely out of bon-bons and the cable went out during Jerry Springer.
Because of the struggles I face when Chief Money Maker is out of town, and because I incessantly remind him of them when he returns, he often feels guilty enough to take me out on a date. Saturday night we took in Trout Fishing in America at the Bartlett Performing Arts Center. We felt young and giddy being away from the kids, and because we were the “young whippersnappers” in attendance. G-Bear is now in traction at the hospital because we relayed that information at the breakfast table Sunday morning and he said, “How often do you guys get to say that?”
After the show, we decided to check out a band we had recently heard about. We were enjoying the music, watching young lovers drunkenly stare into each other’s eyes the way we used to do, and laughing about the fact that once they have kids they can forget all that mess! Then the text came in and I panicked. Chief Money Maker reminded me that we were the adults, but somehow I couldn’t rid my stomach of the knot that had formed. It was Prom Night 1986 all over again when my mother set the clock ahead an hour, and my sister set the clock ahead an hour, and suddenly the whole town was out looking for me because I was “late.” We had to get home.
We pulled into the garage, and snuck into the house trying to pretend like we had been there the whole time. Our ruse was foiled when Sweet Pea was waiting for us in the living room recliner, brows furrowed and toes tapping. We argued that we weren’t doing anything wrong, like lassoing fish or smuggling skunks. We tried a few of the crumb snatchers excuses with no luck, and finally resorted to the old standard, “But all of our friends were there watching the band too!”
We were finally released with a warning, and a promise not to worry her again. After she went to bed, I felt a swell of pride surge inside. It obviously was all done in gist, but the fact remains that the lessons we are instilling in the crumb snatchers are getting through. Well for some of them, at least. Besides, Sweet Pea was right. Chief Money Maker and I are too old to be staying out until ten thirty anyway.
© 2012 CThacker