I don’t blame you. I really don’t. I know it’s your job.
It sounds like a Civil War reenactment outside our door.
I read the note from the apartment complex. I know you are renovating the staircase. I’m sure it will be beautiful. Because clearly “functional” is not enough. We want to be able to gaze fondly upon our stairs. To breathe in their wonder. To extol their virtue to strangers who have the singular misfortunate of not living here. Definitely better than spending money renovating the gym. D-d-definitely.
I’m sure you’re trying to be considerate. Most people are, after all, at work at 9 a.m. But I am not most people. I am an irrational parent who believes the world should have its priorities straight. And number one is always: don’t wake my sleeping baby or I will shank you with a golf pencil. My baby sleeps at 9 a.m. You see the problem, yes?
Did I mention my son is sick? I don’t know how much you know about babies. But the degree of difficulty involved in convincing them to nap–even in the best of times– is roughly equivalent to this attempt to put mittens on a cat.
Sick baby? More like this.
But back to you. I don’t even how you’re making some of these noises. There’s a low rumble with a rattle that transitions, randomly, into a high-pitched squeal. It’s part-lawnmower, part-washing machine, and part-dying chicken. Is this a construction project or a Satanic ritual?
Yesterday, the baby monitor (which is INSIDE our apartment, by the way) started flipping out and displaying a strangely repetitive pattern of green lights. And the baby wasn’t making any noise. Hint: it was you.
How many hammers do you really need? Right now, birds are changing their migrating patterns to avoid the entire 2200 block of 44th Street. The noisemaker in the baby’s room is already at DEFCON 5 to drown out your shenanigans. Any higher and we’ll get a joint visit from Child Protective Services and the American Academy of Pediatrics, which FYI frowns upon parents who play their “ocean waves” app one decibel too loudly… so just imagine what they think of the shrill, strident symphony you’re conducting. Is there an “airplane mode” for your chainsaw?
And, by the way, how about taking a lunch break? Seriously, we get the one Phoenix construction crew not hanging out in the shade from 11 a.m. on?! Working that hard is, like, un-American.
Whatever. I’m sure you’re all very nice people. And I know the staircase will be a valued addition to our (not) forever home. Just don’t be surprised when this irrational parent comes to your door at 2 a.m. with a sniffling, over-tired baby to show you what NOISY really sounds like.