Oh What a Beautiful Morning! Not.

There is nothing quite like being awakened at 6:00 a.m. By my father standing in the doorway of your bedroom, madder' n a wet hen. The first thing I heard was my darling husband, Rick, asking, “Is there something I can help you with?”. I opened my eyes, and there stands dad, and I could tell by his face that he was livid.

Clothed in yesterday's jeans and tshirt, sox an holding tightly to a pair of Hanes jockey shorts, he looked at Rick and said, “Does he know?” Oh great. The spinning has begun and it's barely light outside. I jumped out of bed, got dressed in a flash, told Rick to go back to sleep, and went to deal with dad.

No question about it, he was furious. Something in his head was cross-wired again, and he wanted MONEY, and he wanted the CAR, and he wanted to GO. I agreed that all that was indeed possible – but first, we needed coffee, don'cha think?

As I went to the kitchen to make coffee, he went to Rick's tool closet – hallowed ground in our home – and removed the small “Honey Buns” box that he recognized as his. It weighs about 7lb or so, and dad was trying to pick it up, so I helped and put it on the table, hoping to get him to sit down and let Rick and Patrick sleep. No such luck. He didn't want the tools. He wanted to assert himself and get the whole family involved.

As I put his coffee on the table, I sat down, and he followed, reluctantly. “I'm gonna kill him.”, he snarled. “Who?” “That GUY!” “No you're not,”, I said. The reference was to Rick, and the worst offense he had committed was trying to get dad to get the hell out of our room. He looked me dead in the face and said, “I know what you're doing!” He looked like the father I remember – the one that could smack you before you saw it coming, and I said, “Pardon me?” He repeated it. “I KNOW what you're doing!” I said, “And what am I doing?” He snarled, “You are screwing!” Ok. Now it's funny. Trying to hide the grin that was threatening to cover my face, I asked, “I am?” There was no avoiding it now. We were in the middle of a ridiculous conversation again, and there was no way out except through the middle. “Yes YOU ARE!” “Oh”. I was just about to lose the battle with the grin. “When two people are in....” ten second pause “same bed, screwing!” I didn't have the heart to tell him that since he moved in with us we are both too tired every single night to do more than shake hands.

Then, it happened. Not only did the grin escape, but a guffaw. Good grief. I informed him that I have been married for a zillion years, but there was no saving my now besmirched reputation with him. “Tramp”, he muttered. Well. Gee. Thank you so much.

I could see that this was a morning where I could do no right, and God help everyone else. While Rick and Patrick were still blissfully unaware of the drama around the dining room table, I knew I had to defuse this volatile situation.

I have a cardinal rule about toddlers. Well, now it's toddlers and 83 year old demented people. Say “yes” more than you say “no”, deflect and distract, and try to avoid tantrums if possible. So how to get dad calmed down? Same way I would a hot-headed two year old – take 'em outside! So we put on shoes, grabbed the cane, and we s l o w l y hobbled outside. I fed the garden plants, and he glared at the neighbor's house. “Where they?” he asked, still with his grumpy face on. “Probably asleep, dad.” “Bastards”. Wonderful. A commentary on the neighbors.

We were out there about three minutes when he wet himself and I encouraged him to return to the house for a clothing change and a wash-up. He followed my directions, and went to his room for a clothing change.

I think his medicine has kicked in. He still looks like the grumpy old guy on the Muppets – the one in the balcony – but he's no longer ready to paint a giant letter “A” on my forehead.
It's gonna be a rough day, kids.