Happy Whoops! Blogfest Monday

This is my entry for the Whoops! Blogfest Laurel is hosting today. Make sure you go over and check it out.

I’m pretty sure I was born batshit crazy. Not that I haven’t worked at getting better at it over the years, but…

“Where have you been?”

The dulcet tones of my beloved carried across the kitchen as my darling wife glared daggers at me.

Danny squealed happily as he bounced in his chair and announced he was finished with lunch by tossing the last of his of pasta as far as his short, chubby arms could.

“Uhm…hey hon.” Yep. Batshit insane and apparently a bit suicidal. “You got spaghetti in your hair.”

Exhaling harshly, her shoulders slumped as she pushed back in her chair and leveraged herself heavily to her feet. The twins were making life miserable for her.

“Thank you for sharing that bit of information, John. I never would have known that otherwise.”

Swollen ankles, swollen feet, swollen belly, she looked like the lumpy mattress she swore we were sleeping on at night. Her swollen fingers grabbed the bowl, and picking strands of spaghetti from her hair, she waddled her way toward the sink.

She was beautiful pregnant.

Batshit crazy I might be, but apparently my suicidal tendencies had their boundaries. My brain scrambled for some safer ground. Before I could think of anything, my darling wife was growling at me again.

“Where were you? You were due back hours ago.”

Right. I’d told her it was a simple trip to the hardware store for some things I needed for the bathroom. I hadn’t told her the real reason I’d gone.

“Well…”

It had taken me longer than I’d expected to find what I was looking for.

She put her hands on her hips and arched her back. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

I was gonna have to remember to give her a massage later. “But, honey…”

“There better not be any hearts or flowers or anything else anywhere in this house.”

Well, technically all that stuff wasn’t in the house; it was still in the trunk of my car. And my mom had already taken the puppy my wife was gonna love.

“Honey, I am shocked.” I put my hand, palm down over my heart and flashed my baby blues and best you-love-me grin at her. “You told me you weren’t in the mood for any Valentine’s Day celebration.”

I was just gonna have to remember to remove the rest of the evidence when she was otherwise occupied. She might not be in the mood for romance now, but later, after the kids started sleeping and she did too, that would be a different story.

And that puppy was cute as all get out.

Batshit crazy, remember?

She looked at me with those rabid raccoon eyes, then turned and pulled something out of the refrigerator and shoved it violently into the microwave.

I backpedaled nicely, my anti-suicidal tendencies kicking in strongly as the timer went off. “What’s that?”

“Hot dogs.” She pulled the plate out of the microwave, slid it onto the counter and grabbed a knife.

I watched Danny trail a pudgy finger through the red sauce on his tray. “Are you sure he’s still hungry? You gave him spaghetti.”

“Yes, he’s still hungry.” She waved the knife vaguely in the direction of her hair. “He didn’t eat the spaghetti, John.”

She had a point. My son was wearing as much spaghetti as my wife. Only he seemed a helluva lot happier about it.

“Mamamamamamamamama…” Danny screamed as he pounded on his tray.

We should probably start feeding him in the bathtub and just hose him down afterward.

“Hot dogs?” I’d skipped lunch in my rush to go shopping and obviously hunger was making me stupid. That was my story and I was sticking to it. “Got one for me?”

The raccoon eyes locked on me as she sliced with surgical precision. “Of course I‘ve got one for you.”

Come to think of it, I wasn’t so hungry I couldn’t wait. “I can finish feeding him if you wanna go take a nap.”

She shoved the plate at me, spun inelegantly on her heel, and ruffled her son’s sauce-slicked hair as she waddled past. Her voice floated soft and dangerous behind her on her way out of the center chamber.

“I’m going to take a shower. And I’d better not see any hearts or flowers or anything.”

I smiled hugely at my son as I settled in to share lunch with him. Dried sauce trails crinkled on chubby cheeks as an answering gap-tooth grin split his face.

A tiny hand darted out, snagged a slice of hot dog, and shoved it fist deep into the gaping maw of his mouth. He giggled maniacally as I speared a piece of my own and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially.

“Mommy loves Valentine’s Day.”