I begin bedtime countdown at 9:00. In the morning.
Recently, at 9:03 am, Spawn asked if I actually loved him, because he got the distinct feeling that I looked forward to not having him around. Didn’t I feel at least a little bit guilty about this?
I looked up “guilt” in the dictionary and laughed for a full twenty minutes.
At 9 pm, all talking must cease. His soundproof door is shut and locked down tight so that I can enjoy the little melody that one of my voices sings to me at night. But despite my numerous attempts at total silence using duct tape, ball gags, stuffed animals, corks, and cotton balls, various sounds still escape from the mouth of my womb-fruit.
On occasion, he will chew through the leather and scratch through the door to escape. There’s an immediate freeze when my eyes lock into his, almost like a deer in headlights. And depending on his level of bladder fill and his ability to control it, he will either pretend to see nothing, drop to his stomach and belly crawl to the bathroom, or back away slowly, all the way back into his boy cave. These incidents are never spoken of come the morning, and the bedtime countdown begins once again.
And now The Incoherent Rambling Of A Moose is brought to you today by the letter…
Cockney rhyming slang-Garden fence
Example-“*That Arnold Palmer (farmer) Smith, is a proper garden fence.The other day, e’ bear’s paw (saw) a bull caught in an electric fence and thought it was charging.”
*Yeah, my baby sis didn’t get the joke either.