Chuck’s brother, Matt, was supposed to come pumpkin picking with us yesterday. When he didn’t show, I understood. What 21-year-old guy wants to watch two yokels chase a fat toddler around a hick pumpkin patch? Turns out he didn’t make it because his alarm, which was set for 11 a.m., never went off and he slept until four.
He finally did make it up—at 11 p.m. Chuck and I were passed out on the couch. Matt wanted us to have some beers with him. He teased us for being old farts. Chuck, like any good brother, took the bait; I went to bed.
Is it wrong that when I brought Junior downstairs at 7 a.m. and we passed Matt, who was sound asleep on the couch, I experienced immense pleasure when Junior started yelling, “hi-ey, hi-ey” and Matt let out an exhausted moan?
Is it wrong that when Junior started shrieking because I didn’t give him his Cheerios fast enough I, um, waited a little longer so Matt could experience a toddler’s greedy wrath in all its nails-on-a-chalkboard entirety?
And finally, is it wrong that I felt giddy and vindicated when Matt stumbled into the kitchen minutes later, eyes bloodshot, and begged for coffee?
Really, is that one of the unspoken delights of parenthood—that we enjoy watching childless people who still live carefree lives suffer a little too sometimes?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.