Child B doesn’t get a lot of air time on the blog.
Clearly we love him less.
What’s the point in even having the children if we can’t engage in blatant favoritism?
Or it could just be that he’s older and out learning how to have a life of his own so he’s not around to wreak the same amount of havoc the way the younger two are.
That sounds less like something that will have parenting authorities at my door. We’ll go with that one.
Child B has his moments. Few but glorious.
One evening he walks into the bedroom, holding one of the handsets from the new phone-o-pus we bought.
The phone-o-pus is so named because it came with FOUR handsets.
There are only five people in our family, and three of them only live here half the time.
I asked Himself why we needed a phone that came with FOUR handsets.
The answer, obviously, is that I am stupid. There could be a phone handset emergency. There could be a desperate situation wherein life on Earth as we know it is dependent upon us being no more than 11 feet from a phone.
When this hypothetical communications-based armaggedon is nigh, we are ready.
Except now we’re not.
Now, basically, you’re all gonna die.
Child B walks into the bedroom holding one of the handsets from the phone-o-pus which is making an odd noise.
I am at the computer, Himself is sitting on the bed.
Child B raises the handset as announces, “The phone fell into the sink.”
I turn away from the computer. “Excuse me?” I say.
“The phone fell into the sink.”
“So the phone, by some mysterious force, leapt into a basin full of water? Is the phone suicidal? Did the phone show willful intent to do self-harm? Was the phone trying to save another electronic device?”
Child B looks at the handset, looks at me, looks at his dad. Then says, “No, I was talking on the phone and holding it against my shoulder while I was washing my hands and it fell into the sink.”
“So what really happened,” says his dad, “is that you dropped the phone into the sink?”
“Yeah, ok, I guess. You could put it that way.”
“Well that way makes a certain amount of sense.” I say. “The alternative is that we need to find a psychologist for our telecommunications equipment.”
“I think it’s okay though,” he says. “The display’s not working but you can talk on it.”
Except I’m hearing a weird noise that has nothing to do with the odd people with whom we occasionally speak on the phone.
And it turns out the phone was NOT fine. It died a squeaky, electronic death a day or two later.
Which means our phone-o-pus now has only three handsets.
So when that desperate humanity-saving telephone-reaching situation occurs, well…
Feel free to blame the 18-year-old.
And his girlfriend too. I’m sure she somehow inspired the phone dropping.
It’s what girlfriends do.