An Arby's Archives Flashback and Follow-up

In March of 2008, the Boss spent two weeks at Fort Lee in Virginia in preparation for her deployment to Iraq. I wrote the following entry for Arby’s Archives:

A Note on the Refrigerator

Dear Kids:

Your mother has been gone for five days and she won’t return home for another week. To ensure our safe arrival at the end of next week as an intact family unit, I think it’s time to review the past week and see what we want to change.

The top item on my list is really a question. Who put bologna in my shoes? I must say it’s an odd, squishy feeling when you put your stocking clad foot into a shoe, only to feel it slide across a greasy slice of processed meat by-product. You left a grease stain inside of my new sneakers. I think I know who did it, but I would appreciate an admission of guilt.

Please stop sword fighting with your dinner utensils. I know that spoons and forks make great clanking sounds as you young swashbucklers slice the air over the dinner table. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful that you aren’t using dinner knives, but the hole left in Major Havoc’s finger when it came in contact with General Mayhem’s fork is an indication that this type of play is just not a great idea. I guess I will have to rejoin you at the dinner table instead of slipping off into the living room to escape in front of the TV for a few minutes.

That reminds me that shrieking and howling at the slightest injury is not good for my nerves. Every day, run-of-the-mill owee’s and boo-boo’s do not require your production of sounds that make the neighbors run for their basements with weather radios. Most of these minor bumps can be healed with a quick kiss, but for the record, there are certain areas of the body that will not be kissed, no matter how badly you hurt. When you come to me and point to your butt and say, “I hurt myself,” and I tell you that I will not kiss your owee, the next words out of your mouth should not be a matter-of-fact “Yes, you will.” No, I won’t. Get an ice pack. You know where they are. You can petition your mother for a ruling on this issue when she returns, but I am fairly certain that she won’t kiss your ass, either.

I would really like to know who put the slice of bologna in my shoe.

It would be nice if a simple request like, “Hey General, would you run downstairs and get the Major’s snuggle bear?” was fulfilled without turning it into a grand production. I know the Major laughed hysterically when you pretended not to have found it, and then pretended to pull it out of your butt, but you don’t have the common sense not to tell your mother that story, or show her the trick when she gets home, and it only serves to get me in trouble as she begins to question exactly what it is I am teaching you when she is not at home. Forgive me if I’m being anal here, but you are teaching your brother some bad habits. I did not teach you that trick! If you want to entertain your younger brother, just say the word “underwear” and you’ll have him splitting his sides with laughter.

If the sky outside of our house is still dark when you get out of bed, go back to bed! Go potty if you have to. Get a drink of water if you must. Then go back to bed! Do not crawl into dad’s room. Do not crawl into dad’s bed. Do not stick your finger in his eye, Captain Chaos, and pry the lid open, squealing, “Hi, daddy!” Daddy does not share your enthusiasm for life at 5:30 in the morning. If you want to be around to see your mommy at the end of next week, GO BACK TO BED!

We’ll get along fine if we just adopt these few changes. Mommy will come, we’ll all have a good laugh, and life will return to normal. We all want that. Let’s have a good week.

And please, no more bologna in my shoes!

Love,

Daddy

I discovered this post while organizing my old blog entries. I am happy to report that the General and the Major are no longer sword fighting with their dinner utensils. The Major and the Captain frequently lock forks in culinary combat, but the oldest generally stays out of the fray.

The Major will still come to me crying because of some life-threatening injury, such as the Captain slapping him on the back or the dog looking at him from across the room, but he rarely makes it to my side to show the injury of the moment because of the following exchange that takes place as he is approaching:

Major: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Dad: (Calls out) Are you bleeding? If you’re not bleeding then you’re not really hurt.

Major: (Sniff) Okaaaaaaaaay.

The Captain has learned to silently climb into bed, hog my pillow, and go back to sleep. She saves the mad chatting until the alarm goes off. For some strange reason the fact that I must move a few inches closer to the center of the bed causes the Boss great consternation. The Ref blows her whistle and announces, “Encroachment! Five yard penalty!” I’ve taken to giving to young lass a few moments to warm-up and then I return her to her bed for the rest of the night.

And none of them ‘fessed-up about who put the bologna in my shoe!