Yesterday, while childless heathens across the United States were nestling ever-deeper into the warmth of their childless beds, pulling their covers ever-closer to their smug chins and reveling in the circadian aftershocks of William Willett’s tireless advocacy of later tee times, Sunday morning in the psychiatric ward of our mental hospital began an hour earlier than usual because you simply can’t turn back the Combine of a child’s internal clock.
So, at a couple minutes before 7:00 am on Sunday morning Kathleen and I sat slumped over the dining room table in the common area of our institution, chronics in a vegetative state, our lifeless hands wrapped around our coffee mugs, sections of the Sunday Paper opened ornamentally in front of our thousand-yard stares.
Before I could even finish my first cup of dark roast or even garner enough indignant energy to launch into my compulsory and always relevant Sunday morning comics-induced tirade about how Bill Keane of Family Circus notoriety needs to be humanely put out of his misery like a horse with a broken leg, the inmates assumed control of the asylum.
Light jazz be-bopped on the radio in the kitchen and both boys wandered the downstairs in their sanitarium issue pajamas. Adam stumbled laps around the kitchen, living room, dining room loop screaming and slapping madly at the air in front on him with both hands. He paused his pointless circuit to dance and twirl in the kitchen to a particularly rhythmic Charlie Parker solo before abruptly detouring to the table to chew on pieces of dry toast.
Jack meanwhile ran around with a dish towel cape tucked into his shirt like a taupe popcorn textured Superman (Of course I believe you’re Superman Mr. Reeves now please come down from the windowsill and eat your breakfast.) His heroic lunacy crippled when another inmate, while soiling his diaper, did deep knee bends, repeatedly turned the television on and off and smuggled bottles of liquor and two prostitute girlfriends onto the ward for a party. Jack’s palpable distress manifested itself in a weeping, thumb sucking, deep sea fishing trip organizing, fetal positioned puddle in the bottom of a cardboard box in the activity lounge.
By 9:00am, and after several failed attempts to cop a feel on Nurse Ratched, the bedlam had climaxed to such a precarious level that I ripped the hydrotherapy pedestal from the tub room, threw it through the window and escaped to the gym for a couple hours.
In my absence Adam was given a La-bottle-my and Jack, the Clockwork Orange Eyes Propped Open Electro-Shock Television Conditioning Therapy Treatment, or in other words, PBS Sunday morning programming.; and by the time I returned home the inmates were heavily medicated and the tenor of the ward had changed from psychotic to subdued.
Enough of this turning back the clocks bullshit I say. I propose that Daylight Savings Time should be optional for parents with children 5 years old and younger. Furthermore, I propose that children 5 years old and younger should be optional to parents with children 5 years old and younger. But why stop there? Instead of losing and hour why not give parents with kids 5 years old and younger an extra hour each day to whatever they want; sleeping, showering, bird-doggin’ chicks, bangin’ beaver.
None of this is going to happen is it? We’re still falling back an hour aren’t we?
But I tried, didn’t I? Goddamn it. At least I did that.
(5 Days in to NaBloPoMo and I feel like Roberto Duran begging for mercy from Sugar Ray Leonard. No mas, No Mas. 5 Days and I’m all NoMoNaBloPoMo! If this is my day 5 material, day 25 is going to be a drinking bird repeatedly tapping the letter Y on the keyboard a la King Size Homer episode on The Simpsons. Vent Radioactive Gas? Y. Decalcify calcium ducts? Y. Write incredible lame post? Y.)