First on the list is preparing said gene pool to properly appreciate our visit by whipping them into a frenzy of anticipation. This is best undertaken by a phone call just before bedtime after the waters of said pool have been calmed for the evening. Preferably during the middle of a favourite adult TV program or the dying minutes of a tied, first-half of a Minnesota Vikings game. The groan on the other end is almost palpable.
“I’ve just got them settled in for the night! Why can’t you phone earlier- like when I’m still at work,” suggests a surly son, in a voice usually reserved for telemarketers.
But in the background excited twitters and chirps break in, “Is that Lala and Papa? How many more sleeps ‘til they get here? Lala, I want a Barbie an’ Chloe wants a Cinderella! ‘Kay, Lala! How many more sleeps? Jus’ ‘free?
“An’ Lala, you bring some of your special cookies an’ Papa gots to bring all his tools cause Mom wants him to fix the bathroom an’ build us a swing an’ a doll house, an’ to take his ‘lergy pills cause we gots a new cat!”
“Well we’ll just do all that and have lots and lots of fun,” enthuses Lala.
The groan at this end of the line – mine- is palpable, as I anticipate an already aching back and raging sinuses.
Four days later we arrive. Little heads are peering excitedly out of the window. Fifteen minutes later the living room is strewn with dolls and wrapping paper, the cookies have evaporated, and the contagion the gene pool has brought home from school that very day has been passed on with a multitude of delightful, slobbery kisses. The cat has come out of hiding just long enough to shed on my pillow, and snarl viciously at me before attacking my big toe. I yowl. The Pearl admonishes me and directs me not to be such a big sissy.
I relax on the couch, to relieve my jangled nerves from the last eight hours of freeway traffic. I drift off for a couple of minutes, only to be awakened by a bundle being plopped onto my chest.
“Papa, this is my new kitty, Midnight. She’s a boy cat and is very nice” Chloe informs me. Midnight fixes me with a hellish stare and then realizing he might be in mortal peril, demonstrates he has not been declawed, digs in and launches himself from my chest clear over to the adjoining chair where he turns to give me a final hiss before retreating underneath the furniture to plan a further ambush. I sneeze.
After supper Junior goes over the construction plans and then reluctantly and woefully hands over his Home Depot Credit card with this advice, “Geez, Dad take it easy, eh? I just got your last visit paid off!”
So we took it easy and after two weeks we’re exhausted. Delightfully so. The morning patter of little feet across our bedroom floor and giggles as they tickle the ‘sleeping Papa’s’ feet, is too soon over. The top question from the early morning snugglers was a quizzical, “Papa, how come you gots fur on your back?”
Tomorrow morning we leave, but with an unexpected benefit. Emily came home from school today with a fever, spots, and the verdict, chicken pox.
“Great for you old folks,” proclaims the Doc, “Challenge your immune system and boost your resistance to shingles.”
“But I haven’t even planned any roofing projects,” I stammered.
