Aliens Are Real

* If you are a parent of more than one, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

You hear rumors say that aliens helped build the pyramids, Ester Island’s stone statues, or England’s Stonehenge.  Smart people claim that those silly tall tales are solid proofs of human’s needs for certainty—we can’t tolerate mystery without an explanation.  If we can’t find an explanation, we invent one.

            Well, maybe; but I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the alien theory.  In fact, as a parent of three, I firmly believe the existence of aliens.  They are real; they must be.  If the government wants me to testify I’ll show them all the evidence I’ve documented around my house. 

            For example, who can explain why the kitchen light always mysteriously turns itself on?  Whenever I step into the kitchen, the damn light would always be on, and there would be cookie crumbs on the floor.  I would call everyone in the house to the kitchen.  “I didn’t do it,” the oldest boy would always be the first one to deny any wrongdoing.

            I’ll then look at his brother, and he would look back at me with his particular blank face.  “Well?”  

            “Not me.” He finally says.

            “So it’s you?” I would turn to my daughter.

            “Uh-uh.”

            “Ok, there’s got to be someone!”

            “I don’t know.” They would say.

            Einstein might have said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expect different results, but I can’t resist that temptation.  “Let me ask again: who did this?”

            “I didn’t do it.”

            “Not me.”

            “Uh-uh.”

            “Well, there’s got to be someone!”

            “I don’t know.”

            To this point I would be jumping up and down like a clown with foams at the corners of my mouth.  “If nobody did it, then what did it?  Aliens?”

            I remotely remember the first time I brought out the possibility of aliens, my daughter, less than three at that time, promptly protested: “Well I’m not an alien!” But the little aliens all have learned the lesson since.  Now, there is absolutely nobody doing anything in the house.  The light and cookie crumbs become mystery of the century, as do the pyramids, stone statues, and Stonehenge.  Sherlock Holmes once says: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” If nobody in our house turns on the light and steals the cookies, then it must be the aliens.  It’s that simple.

           

            I’m really worried about those aliens.  They not only steal cookies.  I suspect they’re secretly training my kids their language and forsaking humans’.  Or worse: they might have inserted electrodes into their brains to control their moves.  I swear there are several nights I see sparks behind their ears.  I don’t know why those aliens do what they do.  It leads to dire consequences: my children are getting less and less able to understand our language. 

            For instance, I have to repeat myself a thousand times: “Go to bed!” “Take a shower!” “Get off from that damn computer/TV!” or “Pick up your hair in the bathroom sink!” But they won’t understand a word.  It doesn’t matter whatever I scream, twenty minutes later they would still be in the living room, watching cartoons and laughing like hyenas.  “What are you doing?” I question, and I would see 3 pairs of empty eyes staring at me.  They definitely have been brainwashed. 

            Once after I told them to take a shower, my younger boy reluctantly went into the bathroom.  For 15 minutes I didn’t hear a sound.  I went to check him out and found the door ajar.  The kid was still standing in the bathtub; for 15 minutes he stood there doing nothing.  “Aren’t you supposed to shower?”

            “Yeah,” he nodded. 

            “Then don’t you have to close the door, take off your clothes, get into the tub, turn on the water, and use soap to wash your body?”

            Now that was too complicated.  They’ve lost the ability to understand sentences that long. 

            “Take off your clothes first, please.  Then wash yourself.”

            Ten minutes later the kid was still standing there, looking at the mirror, talking and laughing to himself.    

            “What did I just say?” I shouted.  “You don’t understand what I’m saying?  Am I speaking Martian?  What language should I speak for you to understand?  Take that damn shower now!”

            Though he couldn’t comprehend such long sentences, from my body language he knew what I wanted him to do.  The kid grudgingly closed the door: “I know.” I’m so glad the aliens didn’t take this “I know” away.  But what he was doing behind the door I have no idea.  I hope the aliens didn’t take away the ability of cleaning one’s own body. 

            How long are they gonna stay?  When are they gonna take over The Earth?  What would happen to me then?  I don’t feel safe.  I’m scared.

            That’s why when they went to my mother’s house and stayed for a month, my wife and I felt like birds being released from a cage.  Freedom at last!  When I woke up in the morning, everything was in place.  No mysterious light being turned on.  Cookies never disappeared.  No garbage ejected from the trashcan, toys ran away from the bins, or dirty little socks expelled from the laundry.  All the cups were standing in the cupboard in line.  Every day was quiet and peaceful.  I couldn’t ask for more.  The aliens are finally gone, I can rest in peace, I smiled to myself.  And I slept very well for three days.

            On day fourth, however, I couldn’t help but started to feel a bit lonely.  I caught myself thinking: isn’t it a bit too quiet here?  I looked at my wife, she was sitting on the sofa staring at the window.  The clock on the wall said 9:32 am.  It was Saturday.  Usually at this point the aliens would make the kids running around screaming with laughter.  The oldest boy might attack me with his tons of nonsense questions starting with “why:” “Why is the sky blue?” “Why does water boil?” “Why do we breathe air?” “Why is a ball called ‘ball?’” “Why is your hair curly?” “Why are you rolling your eyes?” The younger boy might be singing songs while pushing his toy car as big as him around.  My daughter might be creating her own music by hitting pot lids with a spatula.  When they were sleeping, those faces would remind me of little angels in heaven…

            Wait, what am I doing?  I can’t believe that I would miss those aliens!

            For the rest of the month, every five minutes I uttered something about those little aliens.  “I’m surprised that you miss them more than I do,” my wife said. 

            “Nonsense.  I’m enjoying my freedom.” I sniffed.  “By the way, I’ll get some Kit-Kat tonight.  They always love it.”

            “They won’t be back for another three weeks, hon.”

            I couldn’t believe how difficult that month was for me.  By the end of that month, I was count downing by seconds.  I was afraid they would prefer staying with my mother to coming back, but when we got there to pick them up, they were ready to go.  I hugged them tight.  At that point I realized: guess I don’t mind those little aliens taking over The Earth.  I can handle those mysterious lights and disappearing cookies.  Or kids not taking showers.

            So I thought.

            The first three days were alright.  The aliens, probably being shy, did not show up as often.  Or maybe I overlooked.  On day fourth, however, they all came back alright.  The mysterious light, the cookie crumbs, the difficulties in communication, the garbage, toys, cups, dishes, books that running all over the places.  It finally got on my nerves.  I found myself talking louder and louder.  My face distorted, smoke came out from my nostrils.  I caught myself googling “how to cast out aliens.”

            Why do you torture me like this, aliens?  Why me? 

            No matter how hard I pray, those aliens seem to determine to stay.  There’s no sign of them leaving.  This mixed feeling of love and hostility is to stay with me till the day The Earth surrenders.

            Guess I just have to learn to live with that.