“Tuck? Ty? Could one of you grab my phone a take a picture of this?”
My parents and I were crowded together in a pyramid that would have impressed the Broncos Cheerleaders. We were balancing the TV, cable box, Wii, and 47 attached chords, all in an effort to find the power strip so I could turn the whole thing off, count to 30, and turn it back on to get the DVR to work in response to the remote and not act as if it’s 87 years old.
A reboot, if you will.
“Can I see?”
They prod with questions.
“I’m… Um, I’m…” I’m trying to fix our viewing options, but the cable box is smashing my mom’s face and my forearm is nearly flattened by the TV.
My mom said, “There’s nothing to see, buddy. She just wants you to take a picture of the awkwardness. This is just part of life with your mother.”
It’s true. Nora Ephron wrote, “Everything’s copy.”
Somebody else said, “A writer is living life and taking notes.”
I usually say, “Oh, my great day. Bloggable.”
(Oddly, I do this in a semiconscious state, too. Too many of my friends and family have pictures of me in the ER, nearly comatose, because I could muster the few words: “Take a picture.”)
So, along with the smashing and flattening, add a smattering of laughter that was definitely worthy of peeing my pants.
By the way, while I was back there, I found a deflated bounce balloon, an inflated Diego ball, and 7 Nerf bullets. The whistling kind.