It was 5:18pm on Saturday and Gail and I were cleaning up after our very successful “Ruin the Bruins” Canucks viewing party that saw close to 20 people come over to watch Vancouver beat Boston 4-3 in a very exciting game. To be more accurate, I believe Gail was cleaning up while I was having a great catch-up session with Derek, while his son Ryan was playing with Jacob and Kayla. I presumed that Sean was upstairs watching TV, taking a nap, or doing homework (yeah, right).
Then, I felt my cell phone in my pocket buzz once. Then twice. Then again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
Finally, I said to Derek, “Excuse me, I better check who’s texting me.”
I pulled my phone out and saw these messages from my eldest son:
I ran upstairs cracking up with my phone in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. As I found him taking care of business in our bathroom, I asked him why he didn’t just yell down to me.
“Because Kayla is sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her up.” Sean answered. Well, that was actually very considerate of him. Not surprising.
“Open your eyes next time” I said, handing him the roll of toilet paper while pointing out to him that there was a full roll beside him in our toilet paper holder.
“Whoops. Thanks anyway!”
It was a comical moment indeed, and I got Sean’s permission to post it on Facebook and here on my blog.
In looking at the slew of messages he sent me, I find them pretty darn funny (if I may say so myself) for the following reasons:
1. The message starts with the word “IMPORTANT”;
2. He types in ALL CAPS stressing urgency;
3. He call’s it “MOMS BATHROOM” (as opposed to mine and Gail’s);
4. He repeats the message verbatim…a total of 4 more times;
5. He then inserts a “Read text” message;
6. After 2 more copy and paste jobs, he exclaims “ANSWER ME”;
7. He throws a few mad faces in for good measure (apparently he just wanted my phone to buzz repeatedly) interrupted by one accidental heart; and
8. A final original message for good measure.
I guess desperate times call for desperate measures!