I Am a Child, I’ll Last a While

We were laying in bed last night, when my wife said some of the most horrible things in the world to me. So horrible that I considered making her leave and sleep in the garage. I considered that she might have to live in a tree for a month, maybe longer, to think about what she had said. In fact, what she said was so terrible that I considered, albeit briefly, sending her to work on an alpaca ranch.

What did she say? You don’t want to know. But here’s how it went.

“Matilda asked me when she’ll get her period.”

I didn’t hear much after that because I had the pillow wrapped around my head while I was looking for duct tape to affix it permanently, lest my head actually explode.

You’d think that was enough. You’d think she would just stop there and enjoy what she had done to me. But, no, there was more.

“When I take her to get her khaki pants for her performance on Saturday I’m going to get her a training bra because she’s starting to feel uncomfortable in t-shirts.”

Convulsions. I think they were convulsions. All I know is that I was on floor. Everything was turning black. Things were swirling and, for the first time in my life, I was actually considering buying firearms and a lock for the outside of Matilda’s bedroom. I mean, I do her laundry! What happened to Disney Princess undies? A bra? Lord Jeebus help me.

Surely, this is enough. She waited until I had recovered enough to ask a question. ”Isn’t this a bit early to discuss this? Don’t we have three more years?”

Then she really dropped the bomb. (Name retracted out of respect for her father who probably can't stop throwing up), a classmate of Matilda’s, got her period over the weekend. And all the girls in the whole grade are buzzing over it.

Not too far from the house is a Red Roof Inn. They have high-speed internet and reasonable rates. Sure, it’s a bit of a rat’s ass crack there, but it will suffice. The way I figure it, if I move in now and stay until Gertrude is out of college, I’ll be safe.

Avoidance? You bet your sweet ass Doc Robbin. It’s not your daughter who wants a bra.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shove ice picks in my ears.

Although, the fact that I’m committing this to my website may be a perfect tool when dating starts. She wouldn’t want this shared with the future carny she’s sure to bring home for homecoming will she? There may be a silver lining after all.