We took our kids to a good friend’s birthday party this weekend. Unlike the last birthday party they attended, we only had one meltdown, and it was relatively minor. When I heard the unmistakable sound of two mini-Daves screaming at each other, I excused myself to investigate.
My boys were playing with my friend’s daughters’ kitchen set, and arguing about what you could and couldn’t put in the fridge.
“It’s ironic that my two sons would be arguing about what you can put in a fridge,” I said upon my return.
“A phone?” was the immediate response.
Now, let me clarify. The phone-in-the-fridge incident did happen a good 13 years ago–likely 13 years ago this very month–and I was in the last leg of a mad dash to get a book published and on the shelves, so I was more than a little absent-minded at the time. If it didn’t help me get that book to the presses a day sooner, I just wasn’t interested. The project had consumed my life for the previous eight months, and I was ready for it to be over.
And the phone never did end up in the fridge. I only dreamed it ended up in the fridge. And a coworker who always treated me like the little brother she never wanted found it and rubbed it in.
Days later, I found the phone buried in a laundry basket, underneath a bunch of socks. Dirty or clean, I don’t remember. Up until five minutes ago I didn’t even remember it was socks, but that was my story way back in 2001, and I don’t have any reason to second-guess myself now.
My oldest son did buy a Fisher-Price plastic chatterphone at a garage sale this morning, but he left it in the car. So maybe it wasn’t a phone they were arguing over putting in the fridge after all.