Any given evening, you may hear a full-on cynical but always-in-jest joke and/or occasional flatulence sound escaping from a couch cushion. You may also hear the waffle iron sizzling or a battery-operated toy truck running constant against a wall. Don’t forget the blaring assault of television commercials or that familiar tweet sound from those smart devices attached to our palms.
But sometimes, an important and serious issue will come about (in this instance probably three times now) that just rocks me. My daughter wants to freeze my head when I die! Actually, she wants to freeze all of our heads when we die…as in, cryogenically.
She wants all of us to be together forever and I think it’s very sweet, in a morbid kind of way. We researched it once before online and found there are only a few sites equipped to do such a thing at a cost of about $30k per head. My daughter states that is do-able as she will be rich when she is old. We asked her why would she want to do such a thing and what about spouses and children and grandchildren and what about our bodies and what does it all mean and why and how and when and, and…
“I just want us all to be together,” she claims.
“Even Sean?” (her brother who is two years younger and quite annoying) we inquire.
“Yes,” she responds.
Then we all just laugh and laugh and laugh.
As this discussion has ended, I get up to go to the kitchen, and my ass is greeted with a firm smack accompanied by a sly smile from my husband. And so you know what that means. But, anyways…
I hear them talking and laughing some more and I walk back in the room and my husband says guiltily that they shouldn’t talk about it anymore, it’s not very nice. And I ask what is it. And he chuckles and says it’s nothing. But I ask again and he simply states that he just doesn’t understand why I’m hoarding “those canisters.”
“Those canisters” are for a project I want to do. I have collected about 25-30 Gerber baby snacks cans over the past year. You know them. They are short and round and covered in yellow. I have them all in a trash bag in the garage now. But, the baby must’ve gotten some new ones because I am finding them all over the house…under my bed, mixed in with his toys, in the pantry. My husband complains that when he opens the pantry to get his lunchbox every morning that they fall on his feet. He also complained that they stink.
“But I wash them before I use them for my craft projects!” I retort defensively.
“Oh? Well, what have you made?” he questions me with his beady little eyes and toothy grin.
“Well, I made some holders for our daughter to store her makeup and brushes and stuff,” I offer.
“And what else?” he chides.
“Well, nothing yet. I have to buy some materials but I don’t want to spend the money,” says I.
“Well, maybe you could build a robot with them,” he shares, mockingly.
And then we all just burst with laughter at the whole ridiculous conversation and stupidity of my hoarding ways and the audacity of me building the body electric.
Such is the current status of our life as a family. Maybe I can build a robot to accompany our frozen heads. Maybe my husband will get lucky. But, anyways…
We can laugh and we can love with the best of them and we often wonder if other families are like ours. My daughter says no but I’m going to say yes, maybe with less gaseous fumes, though. That part, I kind of envy.