The Real Beast Mode

I was laid up with the flu last week which meant that I spent a few days shivering in my sheets while trying to control my fever. It also meant that I had a ringside seat as my two boys — ages 4 & 2 — turned into frightening, nearly uncontrollable creatures between dinner and bed time.

You see, I regularly work nights so I miss out on a lot of their shenanigans.

And with all apologies to Marshawn Lynch, I also watched how my wife switches into an unparalleled Beast Mode. She should get paid millions for her troubles.

Let me set the scene:

Dinner is over. The dining room table and floor are a mess. It’s as if Cookie Monster and 3 of his clones ate dinner at our house. Like Dr. David Banner, the boys are morphing into otherworldly creatures, the likes of which have never been contemplated by minds much sharper and sinister than mine. They have the relentlessness of a zombie from “The Walking Dead,” the strength of that weird creature from “The Strain” and the sheer joy of mischief of a “Gremlin.”

Lucifer, lobotomies and Xanex could not alter their behavior.

The monsters run rampant through the house, throwing toys, bouncing off furniture, walls and each other and only choosing to listen to their inner voices of chaos and destruction. They become a two-man wolfpack, whipping themselves into an unstoppable, uncontrollable frenzy.

That is, until Mommy lays the smackdown.

After a few minutes of the ridiculousness, my wife cracks the whip (figuratively) and the spell is broken. Her voice frightens me from three rooms away so it must absolutely TERRIFY the kids. And they deserve each screamed syllable. She basically turns into Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from “Full Metal Jacket.” I didn’t hear her say that she planned to “gouge out their eyeballs” but I wouldn’t be completely surprised if she did and I’m not sure that she would be in the wrong.

Faced with their mother’s slightly controlled rage, the boys comply — to a point. They still drink their bathwater, refuse to have their hair combed and race through the house naked, wearing nothing but a towel and a wicked grin. It’s enough to drive my wife to drink (and I can always tell the kind of night she’s had by whether there’s a wine glass in the sink at night). Somehow, the woman pulls off a miracle (remind to call Pope Francis and lobby on her behalf) and gets the kids into bed at a decent hour.

On this night, as my weary, beleaguered wife returned to our bedroom, exhausted from the effort extracted by our two imps, she looked at me and said, “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“No,” I said. “I’m proud that you’re raising our boys to behave themselves.”

(Photo credit: SoundTransit / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND)


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About Happiest Daddy

Two boys, one wife and a ton of material. I live for family and I'm one of the most blessed people you will ever meet.

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