This morning I got to sleep in.
For those of you unfamiliar with our household, "sleep in" is a euphemism for "lie in bed and grind my teeth in irritation while everyone else makes too much noise for me to rest."
The worst culprit in the noise department is Rocky. We have taken to calling his shoes "tennis shoes," as there is no way that he would wear anything which could be classified as "sneakers." He can walk down the hall in sock feet and create enough noise to wake the dog; part of that may or may not be that Rocky also pinballs off walls, steps on whatever is in his way, and can trip over the design in the vinyl flooring. If that boy were in a coma, he could make enough noise, just by lying still and breathing, to rouse the others in the intensive care unit.
Perhaps I should hire him out.
Anyway, I am convinced Rocky's brain and his body have some form of disconnect which may or may not have something to do with puberty. He can go into his room to get his coat, a simple procedure for many of us. However, he will careen off his desk, knock books out of his bookcase, bash into the dresser, step into his wastebasket and hop around the room to remove it by shaking his leg, and walk heavily enough so the rest of us think he has the entire lineup for the Cleveland Browns in there wrestling wild boars. Twenty or thirty wild boars. With bad attitudes. Probably because we have watched too many horror movies, all of us are loathe to investigate these thuds and scuffles. So, after thirty seconds or so of these odd clunking noises, accompanied by falling items and repeated exclamations of pain, one of us will say, rather shrilly, "What are you DOING in there?"
To which he will reply, "Looking for my coat" in perfectly reasonable tones, as if everyone puts on outerwear with this much brouhaha.
After another minute or so, one of us will then shriek, "Can you do it QUIETLY?" The noise subsides somewhat, sounding like the boars might be winning enough to start enthusiastically rooting through his dirty clothes and debris under the bed. Eventually Rocky will reappear, coat on, looking remarkably unscathed after experiencing all that chaos and dumfounded at our aggravation.
You'd think we'd be immune by now, but somehow we repeatedly get sucked into this same discussion, playing the scenario over and over and over. It makes me think of those people in horror movies--you would think that, after years of watching poor unsuspecting boneheads go into the basement to investigate that scary noise, only to suffer an untimely demise, that people in horror movies would LEARN. I mean, my children have evolved to the point where they are afraid of the basement on general principles. However, history will repeat itself yet again in both the movies and in our lives.
What concerns me is that we are just now at the entry point of puberty. If this keeps up, we may all need protective gear or a group mental health plan by the time he gets into eighth grade.