We had another dinner celebration on Saturday for my dad’s 77th birthday. Since my brother was coordinating this go round, it was supposed to take place at his apartment. It would have been too easy if it actually did.
On the way over, my parents get a flat tire and pull off to the side of the road. Which they tried to call me about, but I couldn’t find my phone in time. When I called back, I heard about 2 seconds of my dad snapping in the background before he accidentally hung up on me. Something’s up, I thought, so I called back again. It went straight to voicemail. And again. And again.
A few minutes later, my brother calls. “Mom and dad are trying to get through to you.”
You know, if people would ANSWER THEIR PHONE.
Luckily, by that point, some guys had stopped to help. We tell them we’re on our way over to them anyway, in case they need anything. They call again a few minutes later to say they were able to make it back home. Fine, we’ll stop off to get you a can of Fix-a-Flat and we’ll be over.
My brother calls. Change of plans, obviously. They’re bringing the food and everything over to my parents’ house.
My parents’ house, which hasn’t been kid friendly in a long time. My parents’ house, with all kinds of knockables and breakables and hazardous chemicals lying about. My parents’ house, which we usually try to avoid for these reasons. My parents house, which is about to be taken over by 5 kids ages 8 and under, not including Abby since she wouldn’t leave my side. Everybody else was running crazy. All of this for a couple sloppy joe sandwiches and potato chips, which of course my kids refused to eat. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD. AGAIN. I’m going home.