Don't Do It Here

I’m in sheer agony – an agony so restless that anything on the way of my foot will be kicked across the room for the sake of entertainment, for the sake of seeing how it will spin in the air, for the sake to see where it will land, for the sake of having something to do.


“Dad, I’m bored,” a phrase commonly uttered from my mouth ad nauseum ad infinitum during my childhood years.
Somehow dad always had the wittiest answers to say, “Don’t do it here.”

Don’t do it here, as if the mischievous child could conjure up some brilliant scheme to create an epic plot to humiliate the parents.

However, there is something naughty to do. It includes pots and pans, wooden spoons, and blasting the ending of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The grand performance would take place next to the sleeping husband who has a slight smile on his face. It’s almost too delicious not to do.

This takes me back to the time I hid under the bed and then jumped out to give the husband, Andrey, a scare. He screamed and then took a step back with his fists up. The look on his face was invaluable, however the clenched fist was unpredictable. For a second my heart stopped beating and then there was silence. Soon after there came an uproar of laughter.

So we’re back to square one with nothing to do. The picture of his clenched fist swinging autopilot towards me during rem sleep is something to avoid. Don’t do it here, has a whole new meaning.