Where are those gags when you need them?
April 21, 2006
I hate talking on the telephone.
It’s no secret. Anyone who knows me in real life would tell you this. Often times the phone will ring and I don’t bother to answer it. Isn’t that what voice mail is for?
I don’t have caller id, because I don’t need the stress of knowing how many times people are calling me and not actually talking to me. I don’t have call waiting because 1) I think it is rude, and 2) the last thing I want to do when I am already talking on the telephone is field another phone call.
This afternoon at 5:00pm I have to talk on the phone. I haven’t been all that stressed about it because I figured I would just hold the mute button on my phone down and listen to everyone else talk. That way no one would hear my children who will be distressed in the background that I am not paying attention to them with every fiber of my being.
Also no one would have to hear me shrieking things like, “Put down that stick!”, “Don’t run your brother over with your bicycle!”, or “For the love all things holy shut-up!” Not that I actually say those things, these are just examples of what I could say, you know, if I were so inclined.
Imagine my horror when I discovered that my phone does not have a mute button. How can a phone not have a mute button? Aren’t those things standard now?
I’ll let that sink in for a few seconds. My phone has no mute button.
This means that my screaming needy children will be heard in all their glory. I will probably ramble on and on like some sort of side show comedian. And instead of yelling at my children, I will be alternating between hiding from them and boring holes through their skulls with my penetrating stare.
Update: My threats and bribes and went over really well and the children behaved like perfect angels, or more accurately kept their noise and destruction away from me. Once I was done with the phone call I was treated to a laundry list of the ways that each person had been wronged in my absence.
“Wow, I am SO sorry that your brother looked at you and then ::gasp:: breathed on you. It truly is unforgivable that he would want to draw oxygen into his lungs. I am just so glad that you waitied until I was off the phone to tell me and that you didn’t retaliate. I’m so proud. ….. What? Oh. Ummm, please don’t hold your brothers head under a blanket and fart.”
Closing myself off into rooms never has helped because they all know how to work door knobs, except for the baby. And if he began screaming and kicking on the door someone would be bound to open it up to “tell me the baby is crying” because obviously I was unaware.
I only have one child over the age of ten, and he already has enough of a God complex that I shudder to think what he would do if I left him in charge of everyone.
So I locked myself outside on our screened in sunporch. The only funny time was when the two littles found me and were staring at me though the sliding door with their faces all smooshed on the glass.
But it turned out fine, like most of these parenting things do.
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