I Used To Sneak Out

Let me start this post by noting that my mother reads my blog. She occasionally leaves me little messages on my personal Facebook page putting me in my place after reading posts like the one about her chasing my brother and me around the house with wooden spoons.

I’m a bit lucky that so far she hasn’t sent me a gift from this website www.BoxOfShit.com.

But, I think after this post my luck will run out. So, mom…get up and just walk away from the computer. Go on….leave woman!!

Is she gone? OK, let’s do this.

So, I used to sneak out of my house with such regularity as a kid you’d think I was practicing for an Olympic gold medal in it.

I knew my parents nightly routine like the back of my hand.

9:10 – 10:36 p.m. – Fight like cats & dogs

10:36 – 11:21 p.m. – Father takes his drunk ass upstairs to watch HBO late night softcore porn

11:22 – 11:48 p.m. – Father passes out, mother follows suit.

12 p.m. – The house falls silent and the countdown is on till the coast is clear.

Waiting till the coast is clear for sneaking out is the hardest and longest time of your lives. I can’t tell you how many times I’d wake up to my alarm going off at 6 a.m. and screaming, “SHIT!!!!”

But one day I was digging through an old dresser in our guest bedroom and found this old-school clock that had an alarm only a mouse could appreciate. I set the alarm, put all my faith in it, and at 1:01 a.m. it went off.

I quickly snapped the alarm off and sat straight-up in bed listening.

My father was in his regular deep deep slumber which sounds like a mix between a 1920s broke-ass sawmill and two constipated virgin elephants trying to make sweet love.

My mother, she always slept like a rock. I can’t tell you how many times as a kid I’d run into her room frantically trying to wake her up  to impart upon her the very exciting news that I was about to throw-up all over this lovely house of ours. By the time she woke up to my childish nudging and whispering, “mommy… I think I’m going to...” I would inevitably puke all over the floor and bed beside her.

A smile crept across my face as I knew I had found a way to get in sleep while also being able to escape for a while in the middle of the night.

The next piece was huge. Putting together the elaborate mental puzzle I’d created that when put together, revealed the exact locations to step when walking down the carpeted L-shaped stairs to freedom.

The key to it all…banisters. After three steps I could place my hands on both banisters and swing my anti-gymnastic-skilled-ass passed five steps and a half-landing.

The last three steps always squeaked the loudest so I had to turn around and take those them backwards so I could steady myself with my hands.  

At that point…it’s game-on and I was out of there.

I never really had a purpose to sneak out at night. Very rarely would I meet-up with a friend. When I did it usually ended with them saying, “why in the hell are we doing this? I’m tired dude!!!”

My brother used to make the journey from time to time with me. But again, why? We get to hang out all day every day. Why waste sleep and risk getting caught to do it under moonlight?

So, I’d just walk or ride my bike. I’d go to the lake nearby and throw rocks from an old decrepit concrete pier. I’d occasionally leave a tennis ball in my girlfriend’s mailbox so she’d find it and think I was a badass rebel.

I experimented with smoking and alcohol.

But most importantly I was living that very moment of my life exactly how I wanted to live it. There were no rules. No parents. No one was watching.

Parents weren’t fighting. My father wasn’t asking me to make him drinks.

The escape I’d created in my room with music, my piano, writing poems, and reading lyrics had gotten so much larger. It was now filled with fresh air, endless roads and no boundaries.

But despite all the freedom and time alone with my brain, there was a tiny little piece of me that found motivation to sneak out of the house from the idea that I might get caught.

I figured, if I was caught, it would show my father that I was in control of me and capable of leaving his tiny kingdom whenever I wanted. I could defy him. I could break the chains whenever I felt like it.

And like that the night would be over. It was time to head home.

There was always this one corner that was six houses away. As soon as I turned that corner I’d have a clear shot of my parents’ bedroom windows.

Light on – I’m screwed.

Light off – Home free. Just make it through the front door and the rest can be explained by sleep walking.

In all the times I ventured into the night, I never came home to find a light on.

I never came home to find my mother and father sitting downstairs holding the letter I left on my pillow every time I snuck out that read:

Dear Mom:

I am OK. Nothing bad has happened to me. I snuck out of the house to just go for a walk and be alone. I know it’s very dangerous for me to do and I’m sorry.

I love you and will be home very shortly. I hope you will not be too mad and if you found this before dad woke up all I ask is that you don’t wake him or tell him until we talk.

Love,

Justin

A few times a year when I can’t sleep in the middle of the night I’ll get up, toss on the running gear and go out for a short three-miler. As my feet pound pavement I look at all the rows of houses dark and filled with slumber and I feel free again.

Free like a 14-year-old boy gliding through the streets of his neighborhood at 1:30 a.m. without a care in the world and nothing to lose.



My Daughter's Training To Become Lorena Bobbit Jr.

So you should see my boy. He’s got a bruised foot, a cut along his left cheek, a tiny cut on his lower lip and somewhere on his oversized thick skull is a small raised bump.

These war-wounds are not from wrestling with other eight-year-old boys. They’re not from a lost battle with a slippery tub or a botched attempt at eating with chopsticks.

No, they’re from our sweet, beautiful, innocent, smiling little blond-headed devil daughter.

She’s taken a liking to making her older brother bleed, bruise, and beg for forgiveness.

Thursday she slammed a door in his face as he was running full-tilt towards it. The left side of his face became swollen, cut and bloody.

Thursday afternoon she threw her cowgirl boot at his head because he called her “meany.”

Friday, he wouldn’t play a game with her so she snuck up next to him then stomped his foot.

Saturday in the car she back-handed him during a giggle fit creating a tiny cut in his lip.

As a result, I have a pile of her most prized possessions next to my desk which I’ve confiscated from her. Beside the pile is a reminder note to myself that on January 15 the girl can start watching TV again.

I feel like a warden of a prison being tormented by a gang leader trying to claim her spot as Chief Badass.

The boy…well, he definitely doesn’t take the lashings like a man.

Instead, he’s turned into a professional soccer player blessed with the greatest abilities to over-exaggerate even the tiniest of pushes.

For example:

The boy’s quietly doing his homework. The daughter comes strolling by him looking beautiful and innocent. The wife and I are in the kitchen wrapping-up dinner.

The girl: “Do you want to play Wii when you’re done?”

The boy: “No.”

The girl: “Please Grayson?!”

The boy: “No, I don’t want to.”

The girl, angered by this latest development in her very complicated and difficult life makes the split decision to take matters into her own hands. She’s going to make the boy pay for his bad decision making.

Her tiny little fist flies through the air, landing on his arm creating a sensation that couldn’t be any worse than a friendly pat on the shoulder.

The boy drops his pencil, a look of horror takes over his face, and neurons begin to flash and fire telling his brain, “holy shit I can get my sister into serious serious trouble if I over-play this tragic event!”

He immediately flies from his seat and onto the ground as hard as he can. A blood-curdling yell leaves his scarred lips, “MAAAAACCCYYY!!! OOOWWWW!!! Why did you do that to me?! Why is this happening to me and my life! You’re so mean and you’ve hurt me soooo badly!!”

This usually ends with the wife and I running into the room to find the boy holding his shin, despite the fact he was hit in the arm, and screaming while the daughter continually says, “I’m sorry Grayson!!!”

But we’re getting a handle on it! Despite explaining to her how much we love her and that hitting is not OK, we’ve also explained vividly how if it happens one more time she will experience a room containing one mattress, a pillow, a blanket, and nothing else.

And it’s times like this that make us, as parents, regret the hell out of threats that ultimately result in a whole shit-ton of manual labor.

Here’s hoping she learns her lesson and stops hurdling down the road to become the next Lorena Bobbit!