Don't Touch My Monkey

A few weeks ago S and I were invited to a friend’s house for dinner. Michelle’s husband was out of town, and she thought it would be fun to get the kids together and enjoy a nice summer evening on her back deck.

I arrived, bottle of wine in hand, and as soon my glass was full, got to keeping my friend company in the kitchen while she sliced and diced and did other kitchenly things. Her 3-year son Ciaran was kneeling on a stool over the kitchen skin, very busy on something that apparently required the faucet to be on.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked him.

He pointed into the sink. “Me give Woody a bath!”

I peered over into the sink and saw poor ol’ Toy Story Woody, fully dressed in his plaid shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, half-drowned, his frozen smile begging for mercy. “Wow!” I exclaimed, “He looks pretty clean to me!”

Ciaran shook his curly head in furious disagreement, “No! Woody need bath!”
I left Ciaran to murdering Woody with water, and continued chatting with Michelle.

Once dinner was ready, we headed out to the back deck, and I heard Michelle telling Ciaran it was time to turn off the faucet. Ciaran was pretty hell-bent in believing that Woody needed to bathe for at least another good 2 hours, and refused to shut off the faucet. There was a little skirmish of wills, and then Ciaran and Michelle appeared on the deck, where I was already seated with S and Michelle’s daughter, Sophie.

The food looked amazing, and I was starving, so couldn’t wait to dig in. I was just about to shove a forkful into my mouth when Ciaran shot out of his seat back into the kitchen, where he headed straight for the faucet. Michelle also shot out of her seat after him, and brought him back all frustrated and squirmy to the deck. I waited for Michelle to sit down so I could begin the feast, but the minute she did, Ciaran was out of his seat again, headed straight for Woody. I put my fork down again, and waited for the battle. Once more, Michelle brought Ciaran out the deck. “WOOOOOODY NEEEEEEED BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH!” Michelle pushed him down onto the bench, this time physically holding him down as she attempted with the other hand to feed herself. Amazed at her multi-tasking and will to succeed, I picked up my fork and almost actually made it into my mouth before a piercing scream abruptly brought it back down. Ciaran was trying to get out from under his mother’s hold, and managed to set himself free. He was sprinting in to the kitchen, determined to give WOODY A BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH! Michelle threw down her fork and chased after him again.

I heard his woeful screams from the kitchen and looked over at his big sister Sophie, who had put her head into her hands in exasperation. “Oh boy,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood, “He’s, uh, pretty mad, huh?”

Sophie’s cheeks were flushed as she flopped her head down dramatically into her arms, “He does this Every. Single. Day!” I wondered if that was true, and if so, I was even more impressed at my friend’s patience.

Michelle emerged triumphantly from the kitchen with Ciaran tossed over her shoulder, and planted him down firmly onto the deck. “What do you say, Ciaran?”

Ciaran sniffled and struggled with his pride, but he finally managed to offer a heartfelt little “I sowwy….”

Relieved that the crisis seemed to have been averted, we all settled in again and I happily picked up my fork – once again – and managed to shovel in some food, at last! Ciaran’s mood significantly lightened and the black temper tantrum cloud seemed to have lifted.

But within minutes, that all changed.

Sophie decided she was done eating and wanted to leave the table, but Michelle told her she needed to wait for all of us to finish. So she asked if she could at least go and get her monkey (GAWD!). Michelle, at this point done with it all, nodded her permission while swigging a much needed shot of wine from her glass. Sophie was back in a flash, and in her hands she had a stuffed monkey that was wrapped up in a banana. Yes, it was as scary-looking as it sounds. But the creepiness was totally lost on S and Sophie, because they oohed and aaahed over the “cuteness” of it all, which somehow renewed Ciaran’s desire to go and give Woody a bath. That is where the reprieve ended, because while Sophie and S fawned over a monkey in a banana, Ciaran got more and more restless, absolutely certain Woody would simply perish if he didn’t get that damned bath.

Michelle, now done with it all more than EVER, suggested to Ciaran that he go and play with Sophie’s monkey. His eyes lit up, and he tore out of his seat to the other side of the table. But Sophie? Was not having it. This was HER monkey, and she was in no mood to have Ciaran even look at it. Ciaran and Sophie struggled over the monkey, tug-o-warring with it. At one point, in a desperate attempt to get Ciaran to drop the monkey, Sophie grabbed him by the cheeks and squeezed them so hard she almost drew blood. Ciaran wailed in pain and surprise, and he stood there, all purple-cheeked, crying but still tenaciously reaching for the monkey. And in the midst of his wails, Sophie, also done with it all, yelled out in despair, “MOM! WHY DID YOU TELL HIM TOUCH MY MONKEY?”

Touch. My. Monkey?

Yes, I am 12 years old, and so is Michelle, apparently, because despite the screaming and whining and tears and bloody cheeks, and the fact that we had not had one moment’s peace on that beautiful back deck over a beautifully prepared meal, somehow, the single phrase, “TOUCH MY MONKEY” put us both into a fit of totally immature laughter. “She said TOUCH MY MONKEY!” we snorted out loud to each other, trying not to spew the wine we had both just sipped. The kids, tear-streaked and purple-faced, just stared at us, stunned into silence, not getting what the hell was so funny.

But it was funny. And it has to be funny. Because if it’s not funny at times like this, you cry.

~Patti