The Follow Up

I know you were all wondering how the...ahem...celebration of our eighth anniversary went last night. However, a gentleman never tells.

I, fortunately for you, am not a gentleman. In fact, I'm all about the gory details, right down the bodily fluids. Strap yourselves in.

So, we planned for a romantic dinner last night. We were going to go get some steak or maybe go to Ted's Montana Grille, because goddammit, buffalo is good meat. However, I ended up swinging by a bar and picking up some pizza. I came home to find my daughter in full-on meltdown drama queen mode because she couldn't find her colored pencils. My son met me at the door, snot running down his face, his cheeks pinked with fever. My wife had the glazed-over look of someone who had just seen a particularly gruesome car wreck...or had just spent the last few hours fighting over the location of a bag of colored pencils, all the while wiping snot from a feverish four-year-old.

We exchanged gifts. This is where it shows that we know each other after eight years of marriage: I got her a gift certificate for coffee and for shoes; she got me a book, a coffee grinder and a gift certificate for video games. We dined upon our pizza...after another fifteen minutes of full-on drama queen meltdown over the now found bag of colored pencils. After dinner, we watched Jeopardy and then it was bath time. My son took his and got tucked into bed, my daughter took her shower, and got tucked into bed. My wife and I hung out in our room for a little bit, she working on a writing project of her own, me flipping back and forth between the Monday Night Football game and this extreme marksmen show on the History Channel.

Finally, at ten o'clock or shortly thereafter, we settled down into bed and, just as I was turning off the light, we heard a blood-curdling scream. Into the room staggered the four year old, delirious with fever, telling of how badly he wanted his medicine. I hauled him into bed, my wife dosed him the appropriate medications, I slathered him down with a little bit of Vick's vaporub, and we settled down once more, four year old firmly (and wiggly) between us. Turning out the light once more, we wished one another a happy anniversary and settled in to sleep. About thirty minutes after turning the light out, the boy decided he wanted to go back to his bed. After tucking him in and telling him it was okay that he dumped out part of his medicine all over my side of the bed (most of it was on his shirt and his bear), I slipped back under the covers in my bed, ready to get down to business.

And by business, I mean laying my head down on a pillow that smelled faintly of spilled grape-flavored ibuprofen solution and falling soundly asleep, which is where my wife already was.

Ah, Parenthood.