Those words will wreck your casual Sunday afternoon hockey viewing. Especially when your 11-year-old is looking at you and waiting for answer.
First off, I am not getting off this couch. This house has been wrecked by the norovirus. I’ve spent the last four days dealing with your puking/crapping brother, your complaints about your stomach and watching my wife continually dash to the bathroom while resigning myself to the fact that I will never have sex again. Honestly, if everyone didn’t need me so badly, I probably would have spent the last two days in bed myself but I manned up and did my job. Now I’m going to sit here and try to deal with this giant spike that someone apparently drove through my skull. Get up and get your own beer.
Second, WAIT!!.. James just asked me for a beer! James, my naïve, innocent pure little man. Quite frankly, I expected this from his younger brother. Seriously, having Ben sick has been a bit of a blessing as I was not constantly trying to foil one of his schemes. I should have micro-chipped that one. But James, he is sooo innocent. If I had waited, I probably could have just had his bride break the news about Santa on his wedding night. Darn it, I still have not had that “talk” with him either. I have to do that. I do not want him to have hear about it like I did. A nice fatherly talk after watching some disgusting baboon toss-off in a zoo. Wait, there’s a Rafiki character in Disney World. Maybe if I slip him a $20 this summer that stupid baboon will explain things to James for me. Problem solved. Let the Magic begin.
Wait. Beer. He’s looking at me and he wants an answer. I can not handle this conversation today. But he’s staring at me with those big brown eyes. Those big, brown, glazed-over, TV-watching eyes. Seriously, that kid goes into a zone when he’s watching TV. It’s creepy. Yoda could ride a unicorn in here and rob this house blind and he would not so much as blink as long as the TV is…. wait a minute!
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the end of Coors commercial promising me super models if I choke down their snake-urine. I’m glad I don’t need looks, personality, intelligence or hair for that. There’s still hope.
“Dad, seriously, will you get me a Coke? I like the fizz”
“James, you know you asked me for a beer.”
“I did? That was on TV, right? ” ADHD is awesome!!!
” That’s silly dad. I’m just a boy!”
And with that, I am more than happy to get off the couch and get my boy a Coke. More importantly, I am more than happy to let James continue to be my little boy for just a little longer. I’ve got time.