Five weeks! Five weeks in quarantine with my wife and five children in our New York City apartment. And I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy? Do you hear an echo?
Let me try that one more time. I'm not crazzzzy, but I'm getting there. Every morning does feel like that scene from the movie "Groundhog Day." Except unlike Bill Murray's character, it's not Groundhog Day. For me is January 1st, after some New Year's Eve party I wasn't invited to.
Every morning as I walk out to greet my true friend, the coffeemaker, I see the remnants of some phantom party. A can, a wrapper, some crumbs strategically placed to invite mice or bugs.
It's my children. They're vandals. They're doing it on purpose to torture me.
They destroyed an antique chair. They didn't break it, they destroyed it.
It's my boys. They're savages! My wife and I have tried, we've tried, to civilize them. We tell them how to sit, how to eat, how to comb your hair.
We've combed their hair for them, yet they still look like this:
I should go. I hear can hear them, planning their next mess.
I'm not crazy.
You're not crazy!
Hang in there, everyone!
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Story produced by Sara Kugel. Editor: George Pozderec.
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