Rainy Days and Monster Haze

"RAAAWWWWRRRRR," Cal says. 

Cal's monster interpretation cuts through the pitter patter of rain on the condensing windows and silences the incessant humming of the various appliances in our small apartment.  He sprints around the kitchen mimicking phantoms, concocting guttural growls to accompany his alter ego, the MONSTER.  In tireless toddler fashion, he dashes head first into my crotch; his attempts at, ‘come play with me, daddy’ leave me wounded from the middle up, and I breathlessly admit defeat and make immediate call for early nap time. 

Our afternoons at the park have become non-existent.  Like sex after 20 years of marriage, wet sand, soggy woodchips and slippery slides prevent even the most willing of persons from making the effort and straddling the equipment.  Afternoons at home with a child craving the outdoors have ensued, as Cal now finds ways to please himself sans swings and toddler pals.  Unlucky for me, the child is a meteorite in space, always moving as our 1,000 square feet fails to provide relief from insanity, and the small apartment closes in on the little monster and, to put it nicely, his abundant liveliness is rerouted into precarious places. 

Games such as, ‘can you find the $400 cell phone I took away when you were in the kitchen, daddy’ have replaced laps around the baseball field.  If only I didn’t leave the damned thing on vibrate, I might be able to find where he’s hidden it later today.  Thankfully, after refashioning the furniture to accommodate play time, while simultaneously searching for my MIA mobile, my living room becomes a gymnasium and a soccer game breaks out.  Our first floor neighbor pounds on her ceiling, but her lame attempts at an early buzzer are ignored.  I have Cal by one point and there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to let me win. 

He dribbles like Pele on the well-known stimulant called ‘Charlie Sheen’, shoots between my legs with ease and GOAL!  The whirrling sound of the croud ensues, and with the rules being toddler goals are two points, Cal pulls ahead and our soccer game comes to an end.  I blame the nut-shut I took early in the day, but with the child looking like a drowsy monster after a night of prowling, I raise his hands, bow out to the better player and send him to bed.  After swapping out his requested stuffed animal 5 or six times and fluffing his pillow with several times, my pre-Madonna monster turns limp and passes out.

My fingers are crossed, my blessings are mixed and the forecaster on Channel 5 is again being cursed, but at least I have a couple hours before round 2. Goodnight!