On a typical summer evening on my way home from work, I round the corner of my street to see the parade of yards that could be used in a lawn fertilizer advertisement. In each one, the lush shades of green have been drawn in crisp ruler-straight lines by the mowers.
But one of these lawns is particularly special: it’s sprinkled with bright colored toys and features a lawn chair in the middle. Behind it sits a glowing beige split level and a gang of 6-foot shrubs, which devour more square footage than they could have ever dreamed of.
Welcome to the Triggs house.
As I pull into the driveway, I zigzag around a scooter, a sandal, and a baseball bat before snugly squeezing my car into the garage space. The walk back to the mailbox allows me to examine the scene more closely: the lawn chair lies on its side next to a spilled coffee mug and a dropped magazine; a hockey stick sits on the edge of the street, flirting with traffic like a brave turtle itching to cross; and finally, an abandoned baby doll rests face down in the neighbor’s yard . . .
. . . and that’s when I hear it: the screaming from the house.
My dear Watson! I do very much think that sh*t hit the fan out here!
As I open the door, the noise spills out like water from a collapsing dam. I walk in and see Laura holding a crying toddler with one hand and stirring pasta with another. David and Mary are in a wrestling match next to her ankles. The counters are covered with spilled juice, crushed crackers, broken crayons, and uncapped markers.
Nowhere among the ruins, however, do I see a single alcoholic drink, which makes me wonder whether my wife is even human.
I walk up and ask Laura the insufferably stupid question: how’s it going? She recollects herself with a deep breath. “Fine. Everything’s fine.” After I drag Mary and David out of the kitchen, she then gives me the damage report, which usually consists of the following:
- “David broke the TV.”
- “Mary’s complaining that one of her preschool classmates had ugly hair.”
- “Matthew won’t let go of me.”
- “David broke our second TV.”
- “Mary is melting down.”
- “David escaped outside naked and circled the house twice before I caught him.”
“How was your day?” she asks me. “Oh busy, I . . .uh . . . I had to read a lot of police reports.”
I might as well have told her I went golfing. Time to contribute.
In an attempt to restore some “law and order,” I tuck my chin down to make myself sound like Zeus and holler out, “kids, it’s time to eat!” They run to the dinner table. But instead of sitting in chairs, they push the chairs across the floor towards the snack and junk food cabinet. Realizing the miscommunication, I dart over and peel them off the cabinet handles.
I strap a protesting Matthew into the booster while Mary gives Laura directions on how to set the table.
We all get situated except for David, who returned to his toys in the living room. When I pick up David to bring him back, he responds with a left hook.
We sit at the table and say grace while David’s exorcist-style screaming echoes from the time-out room. When the prayer is done, I retrieve David and we all dig in.
Now if there’s anything that will land Laura and me in marriage counseling, it is our eating speeds. She will finish her plate and clean half the kitchen by the time I swallow my second bite. I don’t lack the will to eat fast, only the attention span and multitasking ability. Laura can finish her dinner while replenishing our children’s plates and conversing with all three of them.
But while her brain plays chess, mine plays checkers. If anyone talks to me, I forget to chew.
Once the dinner makes its way from the kids’ plates to the floor, Laura and I bring the dishes to the dishwasher. This signals to David that he and I should go down stairs and practice our gladiator fights with the couch pillows. “Not until after we clean, David,” I tell him. All he hears is “I’m selling you to a labor camp.” He grabs a kitchen rag and whips my shins with it.
As we’re cleaning, Laura glides around collecting dishes and food items. She returns them to their places while wiping the counters and reminding me of our children’s upcoming events and deadlines.
As this is happening, Matthew walks up to the freezer door. Using both hands, he grabs the handle and violently thrashes his body back and forth to rip the door open. He wants popsicles. Ninety percent of the time, there’s precisely two of them left for our three kids. One is going to lose. Before I can mentally solve this dilemma, Matthew crawls into the freezer and uses the shelves as ladder steps. I pull Matthew out of the freezer, at which point David reaches in for the popsicles. I nudge David away from the fridge, at which point Matthew sneaks by me and pulls out a bag of frozen french fries.
No longer able to keep up with this game of whack-a-mole, I explode. Laura patiently brainstorms ways I can still feel like a helper: “why don’t you like to take the kids downstairs.”
In the basement, we construct a railroad. The two contractors working on it don’t exactly share the same vision: for every two tracks David connects, Matthew disconnects three. The disagreement turns physical and I step in before one of them takes a train car to the face.
Mary tells me it’s “dinnertime.” She orders me to sit cross-legged, a physical impossibility for a former marathoner who never stretches. I am then force-fed every plastic/wooden food item in less than 60 seconds:
Here’s the potato Daddy, okay now drink your milk, here’s some peas, don’t forget your banana, you can have three cookies, hurry up! okay now here’s some chicken, and bread, and apples, and bananas.
As I’m pretend-eating, I notice Matthew is nowhere in site. I’m guessing he went into my office. . . or the furnace room . . . or garage, or maybe he took off to join another family. Who knows. The problem solves itself when Laura brings him.
I look at my phone. Bedtime is in 15 minutes, which means it’s time to clean the basement. I announce the news to the kids and a riot breaks out. “How can I make this experience better for myself?”, I wonder. How does that Marry Poppins song go? Something about a “spoon full of liquor”?
Then something incredible happens. As I pick up the toys, I notice that Mary, David, and Matthew are playing nicely together–for the first time all day. And natrually, this is when playtime is over. The irony is rich, much like how children hate sleeping in until they’re old enough for school.
Laura comes down with bedtime snacks. We see David start dancing in place. He wants his nightly milk but he needs to go potty first. The negotiations begin:
David: no I want Milk.
Me: You can have Milk but first–
David: –I want milk!
Me: No David I’m telling you–
David: –I want milk!!!
Desperate to squeeze my full explanation between David’s screaming intervals, I talk as fast as I can:
Me: I’llgiveyoumilkassoonasyougopo-
David: —MIIIILK!!!!!!!
When I take David into the bathroom, he kicks the the plastic kids potty like a soccer ball.
Story time begins. My impromptu bedtime tales usually consist of either kids flying on magical bikes or Disney characters coming to life. Laura has a better variety. Her stories have character development, suspense, plot twists, and captivating endings. Mary interrupts Laura with suggestions for how the story could be better. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is when Laura finally snaps.
The End
After the kids are down, we collapse on the couch. Incapable of using our brains for anything, we turn on Netflix and examine the landfill of shows they scrapped together overnight. One interesting feature to note: if I hover over a show or movie option for more than 1 second, it abruptly displays a running preview across the screen. Having no clue how to bypass this feature (readers, please comment if there’s a way), I continuously move through our show options without stopping, making our TV look like a online slot machine.
Within minutes, our brains feel the same was as our bodies would after a McDonald’s meal. We turn to our phones to watch the highlight videos of our kids.
Only then are we entertained.
There’s one of Mary playing classroom with David and Matthew as her two students, another of Matthew busting out Yoga poses whenever he hears music, and another of David reenacting the “Step In Time” dance scene from Mary Poppins. We put down the phones and recall that time when David, at 18 months, sneaked into our bedroom and carried our newborn Matthew back into the kitchen. We remember when Mary pulled me aside after I gave her an angry look for misbehaving and said, “Daddy, don’t glare at me ever again.” Cycling through the highlight reel of our children’s quotes and stunts, and we laugh uncontrollably until we drift off to sleep.
Trigger Topics 