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Read Part One Here.
Read Part Two Here.
Enjoy Part Three!
Next Friday.
12:30 p.m.
I’m standing outside on my front lawn with the kids.
Daisy is trying to inchworm her way off a blanket and Ryan’s running around, whacking the bushes with a red plastic golf club.
We’re coming up on naptime and I want to tire them out so they go down easily.
The period of time before naptime is the most crucial time of the day.
The goal is to get both kids to take a nap at the same time so Daddy can get a little break.
And make myself a lunch that doesn’t consist of the leftover mac n’ cheese and half-eaten chicken nuggets stubbed out like cigarettes in a pool of ketchup.
And pour myself a big glass of juice.
This doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is. If Ryan even hears the rumor of juice, it sets off a relentless barrage of begging.
“Duice! Duice! Duice! Dadda duice! Dadda duice!”
He has problems saying the letter J.
“No, Ryan. This is Daddy’s juice.”
“My duice! My duice! My duice!”
The thing is, he just wants it more. He knows and I know that he’s willing to go to the mattresses for this juice.
“Fine, here you go. Don’t spill.”
“Mmmm, duice.”
I also have a couple seasons worth of Doctor Who on my DVR that I’d like to dip into during my break.
All day long I fantasize about this nap break and think of all sorts of productive ways to spend it.
Like learning how to speak French.
Or doing a couple loads of laundry.
Or at least cleaning up the disaster area that is the kitchen after lunchtime.
But mostly, I just spend it watching TV while praying that the monitors don’t go off ten seconds after I sit down.
The Rasmussen’s front door opens and Nora walks out. She sees us and gives me a little wave. Instead of waving, I try saluting back.
That felt stupid.
She gets into her Silver Acura parked in the driveway and drives away.
I take out my iPhone from my pocket and type in a note.
Ryan sees the phone, drops his golf club, and runs toward me yelling, “Toe-toe, toe-toe, toe-toe!”
He calls telephones “toe-toes”.
If you think you’re addicted to your portable electronic devices, your children have taken notice and are hardcore crackhead junkies from the cradle.
Ryan’s jumping up and down, pulling on my elbow to get at the iPhone yelling, “My toe-toe! My toe-toe! My toe-toe!”
I do a cost-benefit analysis on giving him the phone versus the very real prospect of a temper tantrum on the front lawn for anyone who passes by to see.
I hand him the phone. “Fine, here. But we have to go inside.”
I scoop up Daisy from the blanket with one arm and Ryan, who’s busy checking his email, with the other.
“Time for a nappy-nap,” I say.
Ryan looks at me like, “I’ve been tricked!”
***
An hour and a half later, I walk down the stairs.
Both kids are finally asleep. It’s a frickin’ miracle.
Nobody make any loud noises.
That’s right, I mean you too.
Turn your music down and use only six-inch voices, please.
If one of them cries and wakes the other up, then I’ll have to wave bye-bye to my break.
I get to the bottom of the stairs and look out the front window.
I see Nora pulling into her driveway.
She’s right on schedule.
All her husband Ty wanted me to do was watch her comings and goings each day and see who visited the house.
And take notes.
The assumption was that if I saw “the other man,” I could take some pictures with my phone and email it to him. Then he would race over and catch them in flagrante delicto.
He hid a monitor somewhere in their bedroom so I could listen in from the other end.
I pointed out that they also make video monitors, but he didn’t seem to want me watching his wife change or, god forbid, have sex with another man in his bed. The audio was plenty.
Fair enough.
The first three days I tried to keep the kids stationed in the front room so I could keep my eye on Nora, while the other two were on the kids.
Parents and teachers have an extra eye in the back of their heads. But you knew that already, right?
What I discovered using my highly advanced detective skills, was that Nora came and left the house around same time everyday like clockwork.
7:00 a.m.
Ty leaves for work and five minutes later Nora embarks on a 45-minute run.
12:30 p.m.
Nora walks out the door wearing something nice and drives away. She returns again about an hour and a half later.
Where did she go?
Shopping? I didn’t see any bags.
Lunch with her girlfriends?
Or afternoon delight?
I have no way of really knowing. That was the flaw in the plan. I only knew when she left the house and when she returned.
Once, she left the house around 3:00 p.m., but she arrived back an hour later with grocery bags. So, that wasn’t much of mystery.
The monitor was also a letdown.
I was expecting a little pillow talk or at least a few hushed whispers confirming illicit meet up dates with her secret lover.
I suppose she could have texted him, but once again, I’d have no way of knowing.
The only person she talked to all day on the phone was her mother. I listened in for signs of trouble in the marriage. I thought maybe she would pour her heart out to her mother about how she wanted to leave Ty and take off with her mystery lover. But all they talked about was a planned redecoration of the dining room, and mutual complaints about Nora’s sister.
It got boring pretty quickly.
This was not the sexy detective job I thought I signed up for.
Oh well, at least I had a nice record of Nora’s schedule and witnessed that nobody came to the house during the week to visit.
I hope that’s enough for my employer.
***
It isn’t enough.
I’m back sitting in the leather chair again in Ty’s man cave garage drinking another delicious pint of Mad Hops.
Seriously, this stuff is delicious. You should check it out. Mad Hops courtesy of Dented Keg Brewery located in Plainfield. Drink local. You’ll thank me.
Ty looks up from his phone after reading the case notes I typed up and emailed over to him. “So, where does she go during lunch time?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, you didn’t ask me to follow her.”
“But now I need to know.”
“You could just ask her,” I say.
Ty gives me a look. “Or you could just do the job I paid you five hundred dollars for.”
His tone was employer to employee, not neighbor to neighbor.
OK then, time to kick this investigation up a notch.
***
It’s 12:30 again and Nora’s Acura is pulling out of her driveway.
I follow close behind in my gray Ford Edge with Ryan and Daisy both strapped in their car seats in back.
We both turn out of the subdivision and take Breeders Lane to Elmer’s Street keeping a torrid suburban pace of about 25 miles per hour.
I’m keeping at least one car in between us as to not arouse suspicion. I don’t think she’s made me yet.
Then disaster strikes.
Daisy’s Binky falls out of her mouth and she’s crying before it even hits the floor.
Ryan sees this and is sympathetic to his sister’s plight, so he starts to cry too.
Great. Just great.
I reach back and do an arm sweep along the floor for the Binky.
The light turns green.
Nora’s Acura speeds ahead.
Daisy’s screaming like she’s auditioning for a part in a horror movie and Ryan’s trying to contort his body out of his car seat moaning, “Out, out, out!”
I’m frozen at the green light. I see Nora’s Acura fading into the distance.
I say, “C’mon guys, Daddy’s trying to do a stakeout.”
Ryan picks up his sippy cup and flings it at me. It whizzes past my head and hits the windshield. The lid cracks open and milk sprays on the windshield, the dash, the steering wheel, and my lap.
OK.
This was a bad idea.
Abort! Abort!
I pull a quick u-turn and head back home.
This isn’t working.
I can’t be a stay-at-home dad and play detective at the same time. Or at least I can’t be a good detective who has all sorts of time on his hands and can go anywhere at anytime.
I need a partner.
Come back tomorrow for Part Four of "Monitor".
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