A father usually doesn’t have ownership over his own belongings in his own house, but he should at all times know where his phone charger is.
For me. It’s next to my bed.
If I utter the words “where’s my phone charger?” one more time I’m going to hang myself with it.
If my kids remove my charger from my bedside table one more time. I’ll remove them. From this earth.
If my wife asks to ‘borrow’ my phone charger, one more time I’ll………..probably still let her. But not without a serious amount of murmuring and muttering about “why can’t she look after her own charger” and “why does she have to borrow mine all the time”. At which point I’ll be told to stop acting like a dick and give her the charger because the kids have taken hers.
Leave my charger alone.
The little bedside table sanctuary next to my bed has a collection of personal memorabilia. My radio alarm clock, my headphones, my nail scissors, a half empty packet of Panadol, my ipad, a book I never read, my phone charger and some nail clippings. Hey – no judgements – it’s MY bedside table. Besides, what else am I meant to nibble on when I’m watching Netflix?
It gives me a modicum of comfort knowing these items will always be where I left them. While nothing else is sacred or respected. This little oasis is mine. And I guard it fiercely.
I’ve tried everything to communicate the value I place on these objects. And the importance to me of having my phone charger in its specific spot. I’ve asked, begged, pleaded, screamed , shouted, threatened and acted like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of The Lambs. I’ve cried, fainted and faked a stroke.
They stepped over my body to take my phone charger.
I lie down in bed after a long hard day, my phone and I in need of a recharge. I reach over for the chord……stretching, searching and floundering like I’m looking for the toilet door at 4am
There’s nothing there.
“who has taken my chaaaarrrggGGGGREEEEERRRR.” I scream out. I don’t want to scream. I can’t help it anymore.
I know whose got it. The same kid every single time. The only one who doesn’t give two hoots about any consequence.
“I’ve got it dad” comes an innocent distant voice from upstairs.
I rise like a vampire. Slow and straight. Taking deep breaths as I glide up the stairs. Imagining how I can dispose of a body without disturbing the rest of the family.
“Zak. Why do you have my charger.“ I say through gritted teeth “We have talked about this before?”
He doesn’t even look up, oblivious to the painful death that’s about to befall him.
“What Dad?” he’s getting pissed off with me for interrupting him
My anger levels rise. Nuclear reactor rupture imminent.
“Why. Do. You. Have. My. Charger. AGAIN” I’m eyeballing him Mick Taylor style From Wolf Creek
“Just do. Can’t find mine” he says then “HEEEEYYYY” as I rip the charger – my charger – from his tiny thieving hands.
“Leave. My. Charger. Alone “ I say “Or next time I will bring my chainsaw up with me” I use my best Kevin Spacey ‘I’ve got your wifes head in a box’ voice
I’m not kidding.
It’s bad enough he rifles through my bedside table drawer. Finding my fake trick thumb and my condom stash (I wrote about that here) but taking a mans charger from beside his bed is a definite no no.
Finally when I do get it back, lie down, plug in the charger and try and connect I hear….ping ping…….ping……ping ping ping……….ping…….ping ping ping ping ping…….the connection is intermittent. Its charging. Not charging. Charging. Not charging.
I feel an embolism marching towards my brain. A grin on it’s face.
Why don’t I buy him his own phone charger?
I’ve single handedly kept the apple accessory department in business over the past few years.
I’ve bought, labelled, and assigned specific cables to both my boys. I’ve bought for my wife and I’ve re-bought. I nominated a charging area in our kitchen, where 2 chords remained for months with the fear of death intimated to anyone who removed it.
Nothing is sacred. Nothing lasts.
They say these years pass quickly. And they are gone before you know it.
Not quick enough for me.
I want my charger back.