Being new around here (and by “here” I mean “this world”), I’m not privy to all the inside jokes that seem to be floating through the halls of the Wheelhouse Review offices. And Mom only lets me watch the TV shows she DVRs, which lately means I’m on a steady diet of cooking shows and Christmas movies (though I can do a pretty good Kevin McCallister-after-aftershave face, thank you very much). So this whole Festivus thing is new to me, along with all the name-calling and blame-shifting that grown-ups seem to do. My big brother told me about the last scandal that erupted at the TWR offices when he was a baby and how he was blamed for the whole thing. So I’m on my toes (as much as I can be, since they’re not really weight-bearing yet) to make sure I don’t get the rap this time around. Tall people, I’m on to you.
Now my schedule, as a two-month-old, renders me awake during a lot of what adults refer to as “off hours” (or as Mom calls it, EVERY EFFING HOUR. ALL OF THEM. I don’t know what “effing” means but I’m pretty sure I’ll learn since she says it all the time). So I have a unique and reliable perspective to offer you readers, and I’m sure you’ll agree when all is said and done that my version of events is valid and true.
My eyes aren’t too trained to recognize anything non-mammary in the dark, but last night (at least I think it was night–I can’t really be bothered to tell the difference. Anyway, the lights were off) while I was awake and searching for a milk fountain, I heard a tussle going on at TWR headquarters. I entered the kitchen, thinking someone there might know where my fountain had gone (and because that’s where they keep the wine, so Mom usually hangs out nearby). There was spaghetti on the stove and meatloaf in the oven, and I saw my brother next–he was loitering near the stove because he likes spaghetti this week. Ryan was next to him, talking in a really whiny voice (I should know what that sounds like). He was saying something about how my brother should “let him win” because it would “embarrass him to be beaten by a baby. AGAIN.” My brother didn’t look too impressed by Ryan’s pleading–he was actually trying to figure out a way to bring the pot of spaghetti down to his level so I don’t know if he was even listening.
That’s when Ryan began to get upset–we babies refer to it as “communication” but I think adults call it “crying”–and he and Brother started really getting into it. Brother turned away from the spaghetti and pushed Ryan to the floor (he has amazing upper arm strength and pretty good gross motor skills). Ryan tried to fight back but to no avail–Brother had made his point. When Brother finally let him up, Ryan marched over to the Festivus pole and, in a fit of anger, knocked it to the floor. It hit a table on the way down and I heard a huge crack. At that point Ryan really started freaking–something about how his “editrix” was going to “really have his ass now” because of this being the final straw after a bunch of missed deadlines. (Adults and their schedules, amirite?). So he panicked, and Brother stepped in. He’s really good at puzzles, see, and I guess he found a way to make the pieces of the pole fit together long enough to put it back in place so that no one was the wiser. At least for a while, because at that point I gave up on the milk fountain and fell asleep. And that’s how it happened.*
*edited by Baby