My children have flaws. Not huge defects, no reason to send them back or spend a fortune on repairs, but small nagging issues in design and/or operation. Although I may never be quite comfortable with some of these, I'll have to learn to live with it. My cross to bear, I suppose, part of the sacrifices we make as parents.
#2 is just plain goofy. He makes faces and strange noises, dances like a Bangle with two left feet in cement boots, and has the ugliest belly-button. He has the uncanny ability to forget every word I have just said to him within two seconds of going to do what I asked. He not only forgets what I sent him to do, he forgets we have even seen each other since I served his morning waffles.
Waffles, an exact science. If I don't cut #3's waffles precisely the way he requests them, we achieve total meltdown. Unfortunately his detailed requests change day to day, waffle to waffle, and come after the cataclysmic affront to his breakfast has been made. Some mornings the waffle is eaten whole, no butter, one square filled with syrup. Other days require a surgeon's steady hand to cut down the middle of the vertical (no, not the horizontal ones!) ridges. Other days he wants to do it himself. And no matter how long the last scrap of waffle sits soggy on the plate, don't even think of clearing his place.
#1 wakes up at 2am if the wind changes direction, #2 will sleep* through the big one. #1 is unable to make a choice -- which one superpower would you choose? Um, all the powers of the X-Men plus.... no, no, who is your favorite literary character? Harry and Ron in the first 3 books, and also... -- hope he never has to decide between girls, he'll have to move to Utah. #2 does not know how to blow his nose. His sleeves are dry, so who knows where it goes? #3 can curl 9 of his toes. #1 can have a conversation with anyone at any time, in any room of the house or any place in the city, at any time of the day, on any topic. And if he didn't have to eat or sleep, he'd still be talking. #3 finds snails for pets, and wants to be a marshmallow for Halloween.
I love my boys.
*glad I mentioned sleep, almost forgot the tooth under his pillow! Anybody got a quarter?
October 9, 2006
October 1, 2006
Hardy is Dead
Hardy* was a spider. I suppose Hardy may still be a spider, but Hardy may be a spider moving to another patio, probably closer to the beach or the kids, or Hardy may still be a spider in the sense that my lunch is still a burger. If a bird ate Hardy, I hope that bird is sitting his stuffed gluttonous bird ass on a branch and telling his bird buddies about the biggest toughest spider he ever ate in his life. He'll leave out the part where Hardy, the spider, fought fiercely to the bitter end and almost, but not quite, turned the food chain tables and had the bird for dinner. If Hardy is in spider heaven, God is telling Hardy how proud He is be about the day Hardy had 2 bees and a huge fly all snared in the web at once. Hardy ate well, and faithfully built his web across the back of our patio, rebuilding his (I always said "her" but the rest of the Fam could tell it was a "he") giant meal-net for the past 2 weeks. Hardy could sit on a 50-cent piece and hang all eight legs over the edge.
Hardy, if you're out there, please write and let us know how you're doing.
*Hardy is "Hardy" for the same reason all our various fish have been "Frank" or "Hart", the same names bestowed upon the many caterpillars and snails lovingly adopted as pets (albeit quite temporarily in some squishy cases) by tender-hearted #3.
Hardy, if you're out there, please write and let us know how you're doing.
*Hardy is "Hardy" for the same reason all our various fish have been "Frank" or "Hart", the same names bestowed upon the many caterpillars and snails lovingly adopted as pets (albeit quite temporarily in some squishy cases) by tender-hearted #3.
I'm Gay
...not that there's anything wrong with that.
Well, I guess there would be something wrong with that. I know I would have a problem with it, and I hope TMW&BWITW would try to convince me otherwise.
Anyway...
Of course I'm not. But I have found myself really enjoying cooking, and sweeping the floor every day, and stressing when the uglies touch my sparkling clean sliding glass doors -- and heaven help them if they don't put the right color napkin out to match the placemat!
With school and football and Los Chavos down the street I don't get to do the classic sit down dinner too often, but there are days we actually look in the cookbook and pick something requiring measuring cups and a cutting board, and more pots and/or pans than will fit in the microwave. My skills aren't mad, but as with anything worth doing, cooking well requires practice and experience. So the most enjoyable part of cooking a meal isn't the ecstasy on our tastebuds when we're at the table, it's all in the prep. I enjoy getting the ingredients spread out all over the countertop, cookbook propped up on some jar or bowl I'll be searching for in a minute. I enjoy a beer when I cook, and olives speared out of the jar. I enjoy the uglies on the other side of the counter, sitting at the bar ordering milktinis or apple(juice)tinis. I don't really want them helping, the kitchen ain't big enough for the two of us, and the temptation to add pepper to everything or crack open every egg in the carton is too great. I want them to sit on the stools and talk to me, or pretend to listen while I ramble or lecture, have a game or tunes on the radio, or just play with the measuring cups and be there. It's good to just be. I find myself planning our next kitchen, with more countertops for mixing bowls and more room for my helpers to help, with an open space between the chopping block and the barstools so as the uglies get bigger and taller I can look across at them and be amazed, be proud, just be.
Well, I guess there would be something wrong with that. I know I would have a problem with it, and I hope TMW&BWITW would try to convince me otherwise.
Anyway...
Of course I'm not. But I have found myself really enjoying cooking, and sweeping the floor every day, and stressing when the uglies touch my sparkling clean sliding glass doors -- and heaven help them if they don't put the right color napkin out to match the placemat!
With school and football and Los Chavos down the street I don't get to do the classic sit down dinner too often, but there are days we actually look in the cookbook and pick something requiring measuring cups and a cutting board, and more pots and/or pans than will fit in the microwave. My skills aren't mad, but as with anything worth doing, cooking well requires practice and experience. So the most enjoyable part of cooking a meal isn't the ecstasy on our tastebuds when we're at the table, it's all in the prep. I enjoy getting the ingredients spread out all over the countertop, cookbook propped up on some jar or bowl I'll be searching for in a minute. I enjoy a beer when I cook, and olives speared out of the jar. I enjoy the uglies on the other side of the counter, sitting at the bar ordering milktinis or apple(juice)tinis. I don't really want them helping, the kitchen ain't big enough for the two of us, and the temptation to add pepper to everything or crack open every egg in the carton is too great. I want them to sit on the stools and talk to me, or pretend to listen while I ramble or lecture, have a game or tunes on the radio, or just play with the measuring cups and be there. It's good to just be. I find myself planning our next kitchen, with more countertops for mixing bowls and more room for my helpers to help, with an open space between the chopping block and the barstools so as the uglies get bigger and taller I can look across at them and be amazed, be proud, just be.
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