I love my parents and I’m grateful for all they do for Tim and me, especially in terms of watching Baby Kellan. But here’s the thing.
My parents’ home phone rings incessantly when Kellan goes down for a nap.
I’d say nonstop. From the minute he’s plopped into his crib to the minute (two hours later) he’s plucked back up. Ring. Ring. RING. RINGRINGRINGRING.
I don’t know how that is, maybe he naps at marketers’ cold calling peak hours? I cannot explain it, I can only bitch about it to myself under my breath like a socio-path in a nuthouse while I’m trying to tippity tap type, type, TYPE away and get work done during Kellan’s nap.
And, quite honestly, it probably wouldn’t be a big deal if it were a normal ringtone at a low-to-average volume.
But that’s not the case. Not even close.
I swear to gawd they have a circus ringtone and it’s at the top volume it can be. Sometimes I think they might’ve even mailed the original circus phone back to the circus company from whence it came so the circus company could send them a louder circus phone model.
No, we need it LOUDER. We need to be able to hear it when we’re wearing sound proof earplugs under thermal earmuffs over at my neighbor’s house two doors down.
Keep in mind they both have cell phones, and said cell phones are always charged, always on the table next to them, always ready for Chatty Cathy action. So, if they somehow baby-Jesus’-birth miraculously did not hear their home phone, most likely the person urgently looking for them could reach them via cell a split second later (note: also set to above-max volumes). And what phone do you think they don’t have next to them at all times? Oh, the obnoxious home phone. It usually requires several figure eights around the house as well as some hard core Leaning Tourist Squints to locate the circus airhorn. (You know the way a typical tourist swings their head from left to right, scrunching up their eyes and leaning their body in to survey everything around them at a new place, sometimes with a hand-visor over their brow? Yeah, that.)
When someone calls their house, it sounds like the beginning of the damn Ringling Bros act. Buh buh da-da da-da duh duh daah duh! I can hear the monkeys clapping with cymbals, the elephants marching on parade, the lions roaring and leaping through rings of fire. There’s excitement in the air. It’s actually quite enthralling! Until I remember my irritable, teething child attempting to snooze in the next room over and my deadline drawing closer and closer, tightening the noose around my jugular.
And what’s worse is that every damn call is a spammer, a telemarketer, someone looking to meet a quota. Not some calls. Every call. Every single one.
My Pop is usually the Chosen Answerer:
HELLO. HELLO. HELLO. THIS IS HIM. (should be “he”, silly as that sounds, “this is he, King Tut”. Sometimes I think I am the only one on this earth, besides my mother, who answers the phone properly with “This is she”.) I SAID THIS IS HIM. WE’RE HAPPY WITH THE SERVICE WE HAVE NOW. THANK YO… HE HUNG UP ON ME! ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME? GD GUY HUNG UP ON ME! JESUS CHRI… My Pop’s voice is perfect for the circus. It bellows. All of the animals could hear him over the clatter of the audience. The people in the next town over could, too.
Anyway. I guess what I find most amazing is that somehow, most days, Kellan is able to sleep through all of it. All of the commotion, all of the fanfare, all of the feathers, fur and dung kicked up from animals stampeding through the house around him. He tunes it all out and continues in his blissful slumber.
Now. At our house, a dry leaf cracks and disconnects itself from a branch on a tree three miles away and he’s up, screaming, wide awake, and PISSED.
Hmm. So I guess I should be more tolerant of the circus phone.