We were on our way home tonight, and Audrey was a little...out of sorts. She was hyper-tired.
I call it hyper-tired, because she is giving up her nap and she still needs it. This coincides with the trial run of the car-DVD player my brother got us for Christmas. We had to make sure it works now, as opposed to it not working the morning we leave for Disneyland. (countdown: 11 days) She is so enchanted with it, that she watches all the time, and then won't knock out in the car like she usually does when I'm out and about.
Hyper-tired. Not pretty, and pretty loud.
She was whining, about her lost Pepsi that Ben "accidentally" finished off.
"I want Pepsi," sniff..."Mooommy, I want Pepsi..." I'm sighing, telling her no, trying to play it off, and she is persistent, like only she can be...
"I. Want. My. Pepsi." Little hands balled up into fists, striking her thighs with each word.
She's mere seconds away from a Linda Blair moment; I try to lighten the situation, as the usual stuff isn't working; I counter, complete with the same hand motions: "I. Want. Tequila!"
Hey, it got Mr W to crack a smile. And she made it home alive.
Later, I finally get her to bed, and all are down for the count, in what seems like record time.
I stroll into the bedroom, and lock the door. I head over and start climbing up into the bed, taking off my shirt, flipping off the tv, and starting to proposition Mr W, forgetting that I possess no natural grace. As I begin to sidle up to him, I hear "ow!"
And this is where the story begins to differ.
Mr W claims that I bumped his foot with a not-so-girly "claw" and scratched one of his toes, inflicting pain so severe that is distracting him from the moment.
My point of view is that if it did happen, it was an accident. I have no such "claw" and he's being a baby. For the love of God, I'm half-naked, focus, man.
"You scratched my foot, with a ninja-toe of some kind. A claw."
"I don't care about your foot, it's not bleeding, come on, get with the program."
He did not utter any words of love, I tell you. **** you, b*tch is not exactly a Hallmark-ism. I should've been irritated, but I was too busy laughing my head off. "You are such a baby! I'm half-naked! And you're complaining--about, about a toe !"
"I'd like to see you write that up in your blog." He should know better than to say that... "Make sure you include that you laughed, so hard you started coughing." (Lest anyone get the wrong impression, of course. It's true, I was coughing, and it's a miracle no one woke up.) He's laughing now too. And, finally, getting with the program.
What was that? Oh, no, no he didn't, he did not just YAWN!
I grabbed his hand. "Did you just yawn? All this is going on (gesture between us) and you're yawning? I think that's gonna be it for now." (as I mock-try to locate my shirt)
"Aw, I was asleep when you came in here...I'm not quite awake yet..."
"...so I yawned."
"Look, I was asleep too, and I managed to wipe the drool off my chin before I came in here. How'd you like it if I was about to (edited) and decided to yawn right then?"
We giggled some more, and realized we were doing too much talking.
Giggling, laughter, always has some value, no matter the situation. But talking? At times, highly overrated.
And suddenly, there was silence....