Does anyone out there have that “one” relative? That relative is usually an uncle. He’s belligerent, opinionated and obnoxious. He can be demanding and acts entitled. He tends to get louder as the night goes on. He might even get drunk and really put on a show!
We have that relative. We call him Uncle Reginald, despite the fact that he isn’t really an uncle, he isn’t even a he. She’s four years old and she’s my daughter.
Let’s go back a couple of days. It was a busy, but enjoyable day, at least on paper, it was planned to be an enjoyable day. We had Lyd’s Christmas Recital, and that was to be followed by meeting Santa, a couple of errands, and Home in time for supper. Pretty straightforward.
After the concert, the PTO was selling cookies. Great! Sure we’ll take a couple. Lyd picked hers and Reg picked something…pretty.
That pretty thing turned out to be candy cane flavored. She hates candy canes. That’s where it started. We would not throw it out and buy her a new one. She pouted. She complained, she even whined a little.
She got past it enough to behave herself in front of Santa. After that, she decided to adopt a more dedicated approach to the whining.
I swear, if I find myself in hell after I die, my hell would have non-stop whining in the background.
We figured she was getting hangry. A late lunch didn’t help any, she was caught in a whining sort of state of mind and wasn’t showing much intention of getting out of that cycle.
After we got Home, we decided it was Pizza Family Movie night! That was when Regina turned into…Uncle Reginald.
Uncle Reginald—how do I begin the description? Did you ever see the movie National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? Remember Uncle Lewis? Now, I want you to think back to a television program called Sanford & Son. The protagonist in the show was Fred Sanford. Fred had a habit of feigning illness and heart attacks in order to guilt his son into going his way. Now, let’s take Uncle Lewis and Fred Sanford and mix them together. Let’s add a dash of W.C. Fields for good measure.
Conversations: Uncle Reginald knows better than you. Your opinion is cute, but doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t care about your thoughts on a subject, because he is right. You are wrong. Just wait until Uncle Reginald discovers politics! If you begin to gain the upper hand of a conversation, Uncle Reginald will shout over you until you just shut up already.
Movies: Uncle Reginald does not understand the art of speaking quietly, nor does he understand that some people do not want a running commentary. In fact, requests to speak quieter often become requests to stop yelling (please refer above to what happens when you gain the upper hand in a conversation) Uncle Reginald will often times give away critical moments in the movie, he does not even have the courtesy of yelling “spoiler alert!” beforehand.
Cuddling: Uncle Reginald Loves cuddling. But the cuddling can only happen on his terms. He doesn’t care if his sharp elbow is grinding down into your nethers. He wiggles constantly and refuses to settle. He requires at least two blankets so that he can kick them off after being wrapped in them. When you ask Uncle Reginald to stop squirming, he will turn around and thrust his stinky foot into your face.
Chores: Uncle Reginald sees himself as more of a supervisor when it comes to doing things like picking up a toy-strewn living room. Uncle Reginald has a hard time comprehending the existence of an upper management that does not include him. In fact Uncle Reginald finds it hard to believe that there is even an authority higher than himself. When our demands are spoken, sometimes with fervor, Uncle Reginald sees it as his conscience. Apparently he thinks that he alone is channeling this aggressive and ethereal voice, and he sees himself as the messenger rather than a fellow proletariat to his sister.
The Closer:
Toward the end of the night, Uncle Reginald began acting intoxicated. His needs increased as did his ability to demand attention to his needs. Furthermore Uncle Reginald became less gracious as the night began to close in.
Finally, it was bedtime. This is one of the three things that Drunk Uncle Reginald vehemently opposes, right along with candy canes and white pasta sauce (despite having never tried white pasta). He yelled. He shook his fists. He protested by stripping naked and farting while shaking his rear at everyone in the room. He lost his control of gravity and collapsed numerous times, attached to the floor with the same will and determination of a rare earth magnet.
Eventually Drunk Uncle Reginald realized he was losing this battle. Despite his best dramatic efforts, he would be tucked into bed. That is when his last desperate act was unleashed upon us—stomach sickness. Drunk Uncle Reginald threatened us with vomit. He needed a bowl to throw up in! No! He cannot move! He might throw up! He needed something to throw up in! Immediately! When sent to the bathroom to lean over the potty, Drunk Uncle Reginald decided to stop at the doorway to explain in rambling detail his illness.
“No! Go to the potty now!”
“Fine! I’m going.”
A few minutes later, when asked how he was doing, he told us he was feeling fine. Then his eyes widened with remembrance and he weakly leaned over his barf bowl again. Yep, straight out of Fred Sanford’s playbook.
Of course the ploy didn’t work the way he planned. He got none of the pity, the guilt bombs were duds. With furious determination, he redoubled his demands. He wanted to wear pajamas that he outgrew eighteen months ago. He required the pillowcase that had an image of Tinkerbell on it. He wanted a book to read in bed. No, not that one. Not that one either. He wanted the big Farm Book! It’s got horses! He still needs to throw up, don’t take the bowl away!
The next morning, Annie and I opened the bedroom door with wariness. We peeled back the bedsheets. “Morning Mama. Hi Dad.”
Drunk Uncle Reginald climbed back into his 1979 Ford LTD and drove back Home, somewhere in the deep recesses of Regina’s brain. He probably took out a fire hydrant along the way. Our daughter Regina returned. At least we thought so. At the breakfast table she informed us that waffles are “stinky”.
Go Home Uncle Reginald. You’re drunk.