Meanest. Brain. Trick. EVER.
Don't you hate when your brain plays mean tricks on you?
Take last night, for example. Or, more correctly, early this morning. I was to bed sometime around 1 a.m., despite the fact that I *knew* I would need to be up at 5:15 a.m. to drive my uncle Paul to the airport. And I wasn't sleeping in my own bed, due to numerous family members staying over at our house, related to pending air travel. (My dear wife was off doing a backshift, riding along with paramedics. She loves that stuff.)
So. Where was I?
Right. Bed at 1 a.m. In with my 9-year-old daughter, in her top bunk. Squished to begin with. Then, the noisy squeaking bed wakes the 5-year-old in the bottom bunk, who immediately wants to come up with Dad in the top bunk. But even *he* feels too squished, so he goes back down to the bottom after a lot of tossing, turning, and kicking. So it's... I don't know, I'm guessing... close to 2 a.m., and I'm still lying there awake. Not to mention, a little irritated that I'm still awake. I eventually doze off.
Sometime around... again, guessing... 3:30 or 4:00 a.m., I hear someone traipsing off to the bathroom. Turns out it was my 9-year-old son, who was sleeping on a mattress on the floor of this same room. When he returns, he tells me, "Dad, I just think you should know. Next time you go into the bathroom, you'll find a big load of puke on the mat in front of the toilet."
Hmm. Yes. The child has had a bout of diarrhea and vomiting. Unfortunately, both bouts were at the same time, so one had to go on the floor. The winner was the vomit.
I lay there in bed for a moment. I think, "Hey. If I just stay here in bed everything will be fine. I'll be the first one up anyway, and the puke will wait until then for me to clean it up."
That argument lasts for, I don't know... probably about one minute. My conscience won't allow such a radical notion. So I get up to begin the cleanup. Young sir joins me back in the bathroom several more times, for some repeat performances. Very pleasant.
Once the cleanup has been completed, and the boy has been settled down for (I hope) the final time, I check the clock.
I need to be up in forty-five minutes.
What's the point? I get dressed, go downstairs, and half flop on the couch for the remaining period of time. I might sleep. I'm not really sure. I was awake before the alarm I set on my cell phone goes off, in any case.
My uncle and I get into the car and head to the airport. 5:30 a.m. or so. Time no longer holds any meaning. There is only one word that has any real meaning to me now... and that word is:
I drive to the local Tim Horton's to order a cup of the live-giving liquid.
As the lady at the drive-through window passes me the coffee, and it travels past my face on its way to my cupholder... here's where the mean trick happens.
I know very well that I purchased a hot, delicious cup of Tim Horton's coffee.
On its way past my nose...
My brain sends me the smell of puke.
Was I EVER p*ssed off.
(...not so much that I didn't eventually drink the coffee, though.)