Originally written in the fall of 2022, but most of the encroachment on my territory by the tiny terror of the Curlpocalypse still applies to this day.
“We go down t’ yoo office-office, Dadda?”
The Curlpocalyse is requesting to enter the sanctuary, to open the unopenable door that stands guard between the physical world and I, the troglodyte that wishes nothing to do with it. She stands at the entrance of the dragon’s lair and boldly asks him for space next to his hoard. The large, very comfy chair is usually the domain of the goldendoodle, a store-brand Cerberus if there ever was one. Seeing as there’s been a steady stream of my offspring kicking open the door with nary a yelp from him, it may be time for the hound to find a different spot to guard in this basement Hades.
(My wife and I aren’t sure where the extra office in its name came from, but it’s adorable and we support semi-alliteration in our household. We think it might come from Picture-Picture in Mr. Rogers.)
You see, I made the rookie mistake of attempting to make an office whilst my children were still all single-digit-aged. I foolishly thought that my space would be safe from the regularly fomented insurrection of Justice-When-It-Suits-Him, Oops-Got-Distracted, and the Curlpocalypse. I thought that by placing a single chair in front of a single TV, they might get the hint that this is my land, the air in the very place tinged with temporary independence and masculinity (that is, if masculinity smells like the aforementioned hellhound, forgotten barbells, and well-settled monitor dust, then yes, tinged with masculinity.) They have no such notions, inasmuch as they have that annoying* habit of constantly wanting to be involved in my life and showering me with love and affection.
Tsk. Children.
Curlpocalypse has been especially testing of my hospitality, and in the midst of my two older boys being homeschooled, the Queen has seen fit to banish her to sit with the ogre while the ogre looks for jobs and mainlines tech training for his job search. The Ogre has learned to live with tiny interruptions with such questions as:
“I wan’ MI-UHK!” She’s unable to say the word “milk” without spitting out forcefully, like a verbal hawking of a loogie.
“We watch ‘ickey Mouse Clubhouse?” She probably wants Mickey Mouse Funhouse, but if she asks for Mickey Mouse Funhouse, she probably wants to watch Cars for the 1000th time, as if one show idea simply pushes the other one out of the way in her mind. You will be quizzed on this, and you will always fail.
“Yoo he’p wi’ blan-kee?” I know that if she requests to sit in the chair, she will be out of it within five minutes, blankets spilled across the floor like a tapestry in disrepair. You could set the time by it with such accuracy that it would make atomic clocks weep.
“I have Chee-Ohs?” My daughter, you have a grain field’s worth of Cheerios already in your precariously balanced bowl on the edge of the tab-, well, it was balanced, but now Cerberus has strewn them across the floor. If Cheerios could grow Cheerio plants, my office would be a greenhouse.
“WHAT YOU DO-IN’!?” This is almost always in relation to how I refuse to give Curlpocalypse 20 hours of attention a day or bow to her tyrannical requests for a dowry’s worth of sweetened cereal. It is always shouted, never spoken, always with a seething indignation that belies her tiny frame and sweet smile.
In spite of being a tempermental roommate, I will always end up acquiescing half of my office to her. It’s inevitable. Honestly, the room feels a bit empty without her taking up residence in the overstuffed leather chair.
Far-too-little settles into far-too-big, the toon is set, and I thank the Lord’s Providence in allowing noise-canceling headphones to be created. I have selected the Curlpocalypse’s current favorite ‘toon, one that involves the voice of Nathan Drake as a monster truck that insists on screaming engineering terms at the top of his lungs. I hate that stupid truck with every single fiber of my being, and if there was a hell for fictional creatures, I’d want him to be first in line to-
“I yuv yoo too, Dadda.”
She sighs in contentment. My heart melts into a mold of her creation, and I am a father reforged. Her Cheerios are precariously balanced, but reachable. The ‘toon plays on. I forget my irritation in an overwhelming wave of affection for this bundle of attitude with a ginger thunderstorm hat. I kiss her forehead and let Nolan North yell his way through my headphones on occasion. She’s earned it.
*I feel like I am honor-bound to mention that while my kids do drive me up a wall sometimes, I am forever grateful for the love they show their ogre father.