Pink eye and the brain

Hey.  Did you get the memo regarding the oncoming meteor sent to destroy Earth?  No?  Well, neither did I.  But, it’s coming.  I know because Gav cleaned his room.  ON HIS OWN.  The only possible explanation is the end of the world is drawing nigh.

Seriously, people, this kid does nothing without my telling him oh give or take 400 times over and over.  Brushing his teeth, trimming his nails (i swear at one point he had long curly nails like you see in the guinness book of world records), doing his homework, taking out the trash, breathing air, blinking his eyelids,…my job as Constant Reminder is exhausting.  

However, somewhere between 10 p.m. last night when he went to bed and 7 a.m. this morning when I poked my head in his room to make sure his crazy-haired self was awake, a miracle occurred.  His room had transformed itself and I could see the floor and the surface of the air hockey table which serves as his t.v. stand.  And, he was already dressed and eating breakfast.  ?!?!?!  I was sure I’d later find the image of Jesus on my toast.  

Gav turns 13 in a few weeks.  If cleanliness comes with the teenage zombie grumps, welcome to my home, sullen yet tidy teen.  May I take your hat and coat?  Preferably the hat because I like hats.  (who doesn’t look hot in a hat?)  

Or maybe it was the pink eye.  Gav stayed home from school yesterday, enduring my thrice a day eyedrop torture technique.  The conjunctivitis that had infested his right eye after Thanksgiving meandered its way over to the left eye and started throwing wild pus parties.  (ugh, there’s a monstrous black crow in the backyard right this very second, cawing his a$$ off at me…surely that’s all sorts of nasty bad luck…i wish the pink eye on you, greasy crow; now, be gone)  Umm, yeh, what was I saying? Pus party in the hizzouse! Holla!  

I actually forgot Gav was here most of the day.  He hid out in his room so as to selfishly keep the pus all to himself and not share with zee babeez.  When it’s just me and the three youngest, I pretty much act like the court jester all day.  Sometimes to entertain them…more often to entertain myself.  I enjoy turning rap songs into operatic wonders while dancing around in my underwear.  (hark! now we know what she does all day!  shhh, don’t tell the authorities)  

Occasionally, I would remember that, “Oh yeh! I have another kid!” and would wander back to check on Gav.  As I approached the door, I would heard a procession of 

CLICKCLICKCLICKITYCLICKCLICKITYCLICKITYCLICKCLICKCLICKITYCLICKCLICKITY

and wonder if he was being tutored in typing.

Then, as my hand touched the doorknob, he would hear my single

CLICK

as I opened the door to find him appearing squint-eyed and half-dead on his bed, the guitar for Guitar Hero neatly tucked under his blanket.  

“Hey, buddy.  Sounds like you’re feeling better.  How ’bout finishing up that math packet?”

“My eyes hurt.  I can’t see very well.”

Have you played Guitar Hero?  Do you know anything about it?  It’s basically a succession of rapid-fire multicolored dots coming at you 100 miles per hour on a television screen and you follow the pattern on your little guitar. Old school Simon hopped up on speed with an instrument in hand.  It requires the use of your eyes.  Your pus-filled eyes. 

I cut him some slack because I was thankful he hadn’t been spying on me as I jiggled my pantied hump, deciding what to do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk through interpretive dance.  (i apologize for that visual…here, look at pretty alanis)  

The clean room.  I’m perplexed.  Pink eye?  Entering his manhood?  Lost something?

***News flash – I just fetched Gav from school.  He lost a few important coins, hence the clean room.  Now I know the secret to a clean, well-behaved child.  Hide their sh!t.***