Aftershave & Alternating Nostrils

I’m beginning to think that lack of sleep is not the only thing that turns me into Kim Laden. During the recent visit of my husband’s in-laws, another likely source of my alter ego revealed itself … my parents.

My mother spent her time cooing over the baby and surreptitiously eyeing my lack of domestic skills and making comments such as, “You know, you should really get a bedskirt for the guest bed,” or “This linoleum is really dirty … maybe you should put a wax coat on it,” or better yet, “You probably wouldn’t have such a spider problem if you’d vacuum more.” And of course there’s, “Why don’t you try the Presbyterian church?” “When are you going to take John to Olan Mills to get his picture made? We’ll pay for it.” “Please let me do some of that laundry.”

My dad, on the other hand, occupied his time by playing hours of computer solitaire (or, as he says, “solitary”), eating Baskin Robbins sugar-free candies in an attempt not to chew (and abandoning the wrappers all over the house), AND applying entirely too much Calvin Klein aftershave. The latter of these seemingly mundane actions nearly caused a divorce (an event which is uncommon, having only occurred one other time over a prickly pear cactus).

The aftershave application and the subsequent kissing of the baby led to the baby smelling like the aftershave, me getting a headache, baby getting a rash, and B having “a burning nose” and a desire to “drill a hole” in his own head. I asked my husband to please not say anything to his father-in-law but to allow me to do the honors, since B had already announced that due to my dad’s bad knee, we’d feel more comfortable if he always sat down while holding the baby. I was going to discuss the situation with my father as soon as I finished applying my make-up—an affair which is all-too-rare in these days of stay-at-home motherhood.

But then my husband proceeded to attempt to handle the issue in a quite extraordinary, passive-aggressive display of opening up all the windows and doors. This was apparently an endeavor to rid the house of the offensive aftershave odor. But it was FEBRUARY and cold and rainy.

I was upstairs thinking how great cover cream is for hiding the popped blood vessels that you get on your face when you push out a baby when I heard my dad’s mouse stop clicking. Then he asked, “What are you opening up all the doors and windows for?”

“Oh, just to get some fresh air,” B replied.

That was it. I slammed down the mascara wand and stormed downstairs to confront my dad, who was still playing solitary on the computer. We stepped into the guest bedroom and I told him that the aftershave was causing lots of allergic reactions and asked him to please swab it off (I even proffered a baby wipe for this job). My dad in turn says, “OK, well I think I got some different stuff at home. By the way, darlin’, what can I get your mama for our anniversary?”

Now I knew that their anniversary was coming up, but at this point in my life I can’t even keep up with what day of the week it is, much less recall their anniversary date on the spot, and so I said, “I’ll have to think about it. When is it again?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered.

And thus began my first meal of the day, when I realized that not only am I an HE, but a DE as well. In fact, let’s just call me an ME. I wanted to run screaming from my house yanking at my hair like Medusa. But it was raining—not just raining, pouring with thunder and lightning. I’m not scared of a little rain, but I do feel the need to stay out of the way of lightning as much as possible. This is the 947th time my dad has asked me what he can buy my mom for some gift-giving event, although I have told him repeatedly that playing the role of personal shopper is not one of my daughterly duties.

So I went upstairs, applied the brightest red lipstick that I own, and lay down on the bed to practice alternating nostril breathing while reading some more of the Earth’s Children series. After reading for several minutes, I realized another reason why I like the books so much: the heroine is much like me. She was adopted into a family of lesser-evolved homosapiens and never quite comes to understand their ways. I’m not saying my parents are lower on the biological chain, I’m just saying they’re weird. Really weird. Weird to the point of making you want to move into your closet and play some Reba McEntire tapes (which is what I did in 6th grade).

And then my husband came upstairs and said, “What are we going to do about breakfast?” Yes, all of this happened before breakfast. I’m not sure if he failed to realize the gravity of the situation with my dad or if he was just trying to change the subject, but this was not the right time to discuss pancakes. And this was what my brain was doing:

Left nostril in. Out. Right nostril in. Out. There’s a big crack in our ceiling. The closet door is open. I have no clothes that fit into Oprah’s “keep them” category (fits your image, makes you look good). Oh my goodness I’m forgetting to breathe. Left in, out. Right in, out. Did I turn off the coffeemaker? Where is my child? I wonder if our paint is lead-based? Did he just have the nerve to ask me about breakfast? I have got to stop eating that frozen deer sausage everyday … oops, left, right …

“Kim … hello? What are we going to do about breakfast?”

And that’s when I pounced. But he’s wily, that husband. Apparently part of his training by the National Park Service included a lesson on how to get out of situations involving man-eating terrorist predators. With my physical assault averted, I instead launched into what he calls a Kim Laden attack—this time, a tirade about the annoying nature of all families … his, mine, everybody’s. How they’re all freakin’ nuts and how we should just move to Outer Mongolia in the hopes that they couldn’t visit as much.

The ever-so-calm husband then replied, “No, Kim, that wouldn’t work, because then they’d have to come for longer periods of time. I think what’s happening here is that you’re frustrated with your parents and it’s making you revert back to your childhood tantrum-throwing ways because you don’t know how else to handle the situation. You look so pretty with that red lipstick, why don’t we go out and get breakfast?” Yes, he’s an amateur psychologist as well as a homeland security officer (domestic terrorism department), herpetologist, ornithologist, and just all-around great guy. Let's call him Renaissance Man. He knows that food and/or flattery will get him everywhere.

And so we went out to the Pancake Pantry, and another ME feast was avoided. I opted for blueberry buckwheat pancakes instead. On the way out my dad said, “I hope our waitress got her tip—I saw them Mexican bus boys eyeing it.” He’s lucky I was full.