My wife and I had a rare adult’s night out the other evening, and because we’d had a drink or ten, the next day we felt that an afternoon nap might be in order. This used to be a sure recipe for disaster, as the moment both adults fell asleep was the moment the boys would decide to see what happens when you shoot the contents of a juice box into an electrical outlet. But they’ve become a bit more responsible as of late, as evidenced by the fact that my wife and I woke up and the house was noticeably free of people from Child Protective Services.
This does not mean, however, that they hadn’t been planning, as I was soon to discover. “Daddy, daddy!” my six year old yelled when he saw that I had awakened from my nap. “I’ve got a great way to scare Bongo! Come here!” Bongo, I should mention, is our long suffering cat. I call him “long-suffering” because on the day that he was brought home, my daughter immediately jammed him in the flat, front pocket of a suitcase and zipped it shut. It hasn’t gotten much better for Bongo since, which is only fair because that fucker couldn’t hit a litter box if you nailed it to his fucking ass (which I am planning on doing once I can find some nails that are rusty enough).
Anyway, the boys have taken an interest in Bongo as of late. They used to say nice things about him and pet him cautiously, but now they’re more likely to interact with him in a more hands on style. I watched my three year old chase Bongo through the room the other day, for instance, yelling, “Come here, you!” as he tried to stop him so he could commit some atrocity or another.
And I guess they’ve been having a hard time catching Bongo, because while I was sleeping, they were planning. And I mean planning. This is the diagram my six year old had come up with:
“Ok, so we make a teeter-totter out of train track pieces,” he began, fairly breathless with excitement. “Then we put a glass of water on this end, see? Then I call Bongo, and when he comes I jump off of the counter and the water flies and hits Bongo in the head! HAHAHAHAHA! Is that sweet or what?!”
Before I had a chance to weigh in on the plan, the moral support chimed in. “YES, it’s sweet!” said the three year old. They were so fucking proud of themselves, they could not stand it. And you know what? I would’ve been cool with it too, except for two things: The wife, and Wile E. Coyote.
Now my wife, being the awesome person that she is, saw the humor in Plan A. What she wouldn’t have chuckled at, however, was soaking wet floors, and walls, and ceilings, and couches, and, just possibly, a pissed off, wet cat streaking through the middle of it. As I was the first adult to happen on this plan, I knew my wife would hold me responsible for any disastrous results, now or in the future, because if I didn’t immediately put the kibosh on this, the next time we took a nap, Plan A would morph into Plans B, C, D, E, and F, with Plan F involving a high-velocity fan and gasoline. All of which is too bad, because at first glance, the plan looked solid.
But as an American male who grew up watching the Coyote and the Roadrunner, I knew in my heart that this was merely an example of Coyote Thinking. And if I let my boys start down this desert road, it could only end one way:
So, sadly, Plan A resides in the archives for future reference. With any luck, however, they’ll find a use for it in college.