Bed

I was standing in dark parking garage, next to a tiny, abandoned disco bar underneath our hotel.  The disco bar was serving as our wardrobe stylist’s work place.  This all makes perfect sense if you are in advertising.

Anyway, I looked at my cheap Nokia phone on loan from the production company and did the math.  Add six hours, add one day.  It was 8pm.  Perfect.

Diana answered with a surprisingly cheerful, “Hi!”  Just a few hours earlier, she had written this on facebook:

“Day six of Rick in New Zealand and I’m already suffering the full-blown exhaustion of the post-partum. We taught our early bird, Luca, that nobody gets up until “the first number says seven.” As of 6:20 this a.m., he was in my room with our clock radio on his lap, watching that first number and chatting away. Which might have been charming were he not also sitting on my head with a full, wet dipe. Rick: please come home.”

So I was more than relieved that things seemed to be okay 8189.1 miles away from the abandoned disco bar.

The boys screeched and fought over the phone.  They shouted, “Hi Dada,” and, “I miss you Dada,” and, “We broke the bed, Dada!”

Wait, what?

Diana shooed the boys away so we could talk for a moment and, yes, two little monkeys were jumping on the bed.  Instead of one falling off and breaking his head, our bedframe was the casualty.  To make matters worse, she couldn’t lift our mattress off the wreckage, so this was causing a seesaw like action when she tried to sleep.

Ugh.  I told her I loved her and missed her and instructed her to tell the boys I loved them and missed them. 

I could hear Elijah call from the other room, “We also broke the closet door off!”

p.s.  This is the last photo I look of Luca before I left.