Spoons. wooden, plastic metal, soup, tea, sugar, slotted, absinthe. All kind-o-spoons. The last one on the list I have no personal connection to, but, have heard from a VERY credible source they hold magical healing powers.
Anyhoo. About ten years ago Martha was in the kitchen making dinner. Peas were part of the fare. Martha spooned up up an extra big helpin' o' peas. With a non-slotted spoon. Ah, for the love of God and all that is holy! Imagine the horror. Pea water running loose all over the plate communicating with it's superior dinner counterparts. Not right I say. I suggested (instructed if you believe Martha) that a slotted spoon would perhaps work better. There might or might not have been a short discussion on the inner workings of the slots and how when combined with gravity the slots separate peas from pea juice. Whatever the discussions was, I only recall the end of the discussion. A short rebuke. Something along the lines of "Don't you have something better to do?" A good question I add. If I had nothing better to do, it suggested I was trite and irrelevant in the world (which may still hold true). . . If I indeed had something better to do, clearly the question implied I ought to be doing it.
Fast forward ten years to ten minutes ago. I was getting the boys a little yogurt and melatonin. The melatonin is ground up and powdery. It gets mixed with the yogurt. We have special little spoons for the boys. . . they are curved (so easier to grasp) and have a bunch of small little holes (help keep sauces and stuff from slipping onto laps or floor). When I selected a special little spoon, guess who had an opinion on my spoon selection? (Allegedly, the little holes were going to interfere with the melatonin delivery). Would you believe it? Ten years, full circle. Now, there is only one thing to say: Baby, do you have something better to do?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Art imitates life
Before we get to the main topic of the post, let me just revisit the flying thing paranoia. This Sunday we were brunch bound as per our custom. We neared the usual spot, the site of last brunch's untoward encounter with a brunch decimating fly. Two hundred yards out Ethan started with the "finished" bit. As we pulled nearer, it grew worse. We aborted the mission and headed to IHOP. Seemed to do the trick. Fly free. For now. What happens when we have seen a fly in every restaurant in Collleyville? I guess we save a bunch of money eating in?
Now to art and life. . . Ethan won the second grade award for "most friendliest." Personally, I love this perfectly used improper grammar. But, point is: Ethan IS most friendliest. In life, and, art. By art I mean Wii. We (Ethan) have a Wii character for all his friends. The next door neighbor boy, little brother, big brother, big sis, our dog, sissy's dog. . . and even "Sophia" from Golden Girls. Ethan likes wii fit. He likes to jog. When you jog on Wii fit, you pass other joggers -- including your Wii friends. Ethan waves and says hi to all his Wii friend joggers. All of them. It can be overwhelming. If you're in the same room and trying to do something like say, oh, I don't know, write a blog, you'll be interrupted countless times to acknolwedge the passersby. The two dimensional digital passersby. One after another. Over and over. Here's the thing though: Ethan is genuinely happy to see a two dimensional digital representation of a friend. Merely thinking of a friend inspires him to friendliness. That's pretty impressive. I'll take a tip.
Now to art and life. . . Ethan won the second grade award for "most friendliest." Personally, I love this perfectly used improper grammar. But, point is: Ethan IS most friendliest. In life, and, art. By art I mean Wii. We (Ethan) have a Wii character for all his friends. The next door neighbor boy, little brother, big brother, big sis, our dog, sissy's dog. . . and even "Sophia" from Golden Girls. Ethan likes wii fit. He likes to jog. When you jog on Wii fit, you pass other joggers -- including your Wii friends. Ethan waves and says hi to all his Wii friend joggers. All of them. It can be overwhelming. If you're in the same room and trying to do something like say, oh, I don't know, write a blog, you'll be interrupted countless times to acknolwedge the passersby. The two dimensional digital passersby. One after another. Over and over. Here's the thing though: Ethan is genuinely happy to see a two dimensional digital representation of a friend. Merely thinking of a friend inspires him to friendliness. That's pretty impressive. I'll take a tip.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Obama, we need you!
Ethan. Has an issue. Birds. Flies. June bugs. Anything that flies.
Did I tell you the story of Sea World? Five minutes. We were there five minutes, when a bird materialized about twenty feet from us. In Ethan's defense, it was kind of a funky looking bird. You know the kind -- knees that bend backward, beak two times larger that it's body size. Funky or not, it was only a bird and had no interest in us. No matter, it had wings. Ethan took off and ran about fifty feet and went turtle. Going turtles is to kneel, fold your arms and bury your head. At fifty pounds, its hard to get Ethan out of the shell. But, he recovered and we had a fine day.
This morning, we hit our brunch spot after church. This is something we do. We brunch every Sunday. Today was no different. With one very small exception -- we had an uninvited visitor. A visitor with wings. Therefore, a bad visitor. I did not notice the visitor. I did however notice Ethan crawling behind me on the booth. Knee in the back and all, how could I not notice? Then he went turtle on the booth. I still did not understand why, until Martha told me it was a "fly."
A plate full of chicken strips and fries, ketchup freshly poured, sat idle on the table. For those of you who know Ethan, nothing comes between him and his fries. Unless it's a teradactyl. Or a fly. This time, there was no recovering. We had to leave. With a to-go box of nature's fried bounty, headed to the security of home.
Mr. Obama, we need you. We need your fly striking expertise. It would really help us out. I know you are too busy to come to Colleyville to hang out with us everywhere we go keeping watch for winged things. Perhaps you could give me a private tutorial on the art of fly swatting? Thank you in advance for your anticipated gracious cooperation.
Did I tell you the story of Sea World? Five minutes. We were there five minutes, when a bird materialized about twenty feet from us. In Ethan's defense, it was kind of a funky looking bird. You know the kind -- knees that bend backward, beak two times larger that it's body size. Funky or not, it was only a bird and had no interest in us. No matter, it had wings. Ethan took off and ran about fifty feet and went turtle. Going turtles is to kneel, fold your arms and bury your head. At fifty pounds, its hard to get Ethan out of the shell. But, he recovered and we had a fine day.
This morning, we hit our brunch spot after church. This is something we do. We brunch every Sunday. Today was no different. With one very small exception -- we had an uninvited visitor. A visitor with wings. Therefore, a bad visitor. I did not notice the visitor. I did however notice Ethan crawling behind me on the booth. Knee in the back and all, how could I not notice? Then he went turtle on the booth. I still did not understand why, until Martha told me it was a "fly."
A plate full of chicken strips and fries, ketchup freshly poured, sat idle on the table. For those of you who know Ethan, nothing comes between him and his fries. Unless it's a teradactyl. Or a fly. This time, there was no recovering. We had to leave. With a to-go box of nature's fried bounty, headed to the security of home.
Mr. Obama, we need you. We need your fly striking expertise. It would really help us out. I know you are too busy to come to Colleyville to hang out with us everywhere we go keeping watch for winged things. Perhaps you could give me a private tutorial on the art of fly swatting? Thank you in advance for your anticipated gracious cooperation.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Finger Snapping Jealousy
I remember when I was young I thought people who were good winkers had the world by the tail. I was hell bent at an early age to master the art of winking. Really, is anything cooler to a six year old than winking?
My brother in law Mike is not a winker. But, he is the kind of guy that says most of what he has to say with a fair amount of emphasis. For him, it probably is not worth saying if you can't put some gusto behind it. To add emphasis to his emphatic statements, he snaps his fingers. Not ordinary snaps. Effortless snaps that make a sonic boom. Perfectly timed snaps that emphasize at the exact right moment emphasis is needed. Snaps so loud my ears ring. Snaps that make a dog's hair stand on end. Snaps to make cat jump five feet vertical. Right hand, left hand, both hands in perfect unison.
I'm jealous and enthralled. I feel like my six year old self committed to learning the nuances and facets of winking. But my new target is the perfect finger snap. Yet, I can't master it. I try. I try again. I try hard enough arthritis springs up in my joints and tells me to stop. I got a blister on my snap finger from my poor form. My snaps sputter and thud. I am sidelined. I have given up on the perfect snap. We all have limitations. Best to accept them and move on. I'm a winker not a snapper.
My brother in law Mike is not a winker. But, he is the kind of guy that says most of what he has to say with a fair amount of emphasis. For him, it probably is not worth saying if you can't put some gusto behind it. To add emphasis to his emphatic statements, he snaps his fingers. Not ordinary snaps. Effortless snaps that make a sonic boom. Perfectly timed snaps that emphasize at the exact right moment emphasis is needed. Snaps so loud my ears ring. Snaps that make a dog's hair stand on end. Snaps to make cat jump five feet vertical. Right hand, left hand, both hands in perfect unison.
I'm jealous and enthralled. I feel like my six year old self committed to learning the nuances and facets of winking. But my new target is the perfect finger snap. Yet, I can't master it. I try. I try again. I try hard enough arthritis springs up in my joints and tells me to stop. I got a blister on my snap finger from my poor form. My snaps sputter and thud. I am sidelined. I have given up on the perfect snap. We all have limitations. Best to accept them and move on. I'm a winker not a snapper.
Canned Laughter
Last week we flew Orlando to Dallas. At the terminal one young Ethan announced his need for the potty. So, we ambled off to the men's room. Nearly a full house, but we found a stall. At some point, a dude about three doors down said "shit" and started laughing loud enough for all the temporary occupants to hear. Including Ethan. Who thought it was the funniest "shit" he had ever heard. So funny, it brought on full laughter. Audible to not only all temporary occupants, but to the terminal occupants, and maybe even some passengers on the tarmac. This outburst of Ethan's laughter produced even greater laughter from stall three. . . which brought on uncontrollable laughter from Ethan. I wish you had been there. You too would have thought it was the funniest "shit" you ever heard.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Mother's Day
This post may be a few days early, but, that's okay. Growing up, Mother's day was always a bit of a chore. I mean that in the nicest way. But, honest to God, it was a bit of a pain in the ass. What does a child really know about what their Mothers do for them? When you get old enough to understand how much freakin work Motherdom represents all you do is resent it.
I have a new take on Mother's day. I now understand. Only took just shy of forty years.
After seeing my wife raise our children, I have a complete thorough understanding of maternal instinct and motherly love. Maternal instinct is real peeps! I never beleived it until I saw it. And how amazing is it to see Mom's look after their children?
About two years ago, my son had a rash. Looked baaaaaad. Took him to doc 1 who had no clue. Took him to doc 2 who said "I don't know what it is, but it is not strep." My wife told the doc it was strep. It was first on her differential diagnosis. The doc assured us it was not the right look or distribution for strep, which he had seen thousands of times. While doc was out of the room, my wife asked me if she should just tell the doc to run the strep culture. . . I didn't want to offend the doctor and was sure he was right (he was wearing the right garb). So, I said no, let's just follow his lead. When the doc came back, my wife told him flat out to run a strep culture regardless of what he thought. Such assertiveness. So demanding. So not go with the flow. But, this story would only be a story if she was right, which she was.
The point is: Mother's know shit us mortals do not. When their kids are involved, Mothers have nerve and backbone men could only wish for.
We'll talk more about Mother's and Mother's day in the next post. Gotta keep it pithy and germaine.
I have a new take on Mother's day. I now understand. Only took just shy of forty years.
After seeing my wife raise our children, I have a complete thorough understanding of maternal instinct and motherly love. Maternal instinct is real peeps! I never beleived it until I saw it. And how amazing is it to see Mom's look after their children?
About two years ago, my son had a rash. Looked baaaaaad. Took him to doc 1 who had no clue. Took him to doc 2 who said "I don't know what it is, but it is not strep." My wife told the doc it was strep. It was first on her differential diagnosis. The doc assured us it was not the right look or distribution for strep, which he had seen thousands of times. While doc was out of the room, my wife asked me if she should just tell the doc to run the strep culture. . . I didn't want to offend the doctor and was sure he was right (he was wearing the right garb). So, I said no, let's just follow his lead. When the doc came back, my wife told him flat out to run a strep culture regardless of what he thought. Such assertiveness. So demanding. So not go with the flow. But, this story would only be a story if she was right, which she was.
The point is: Mother's know shit us mortals do not. When their kids are involved, Mothers have nerve and backbone men could only wish for.
We'll talk more about Mother's and Mother's day in the next post. Gotta keep it pithy and germaine.
Monday, April 27, 2009
MarioKart
Growing up in the age of video games, I should be well versed in Mario. . .should be. . . but I am not. I never had an Atari, never had a Commodore 64, Nintendo or anything else. My parents believed a funfree austere atmosphere was best for children.
Recently, I bought Ethan a Wii. Then I bought him Tiger Woods golf. Turned out the Tiger Woods golf was a bit too complicated, so I have only played it once.
The BIG Wii breathrough came this weekend when my neighbor loaned us (or gave -- I am not sure which) MarioKart. THIS THING IS THE BEST.
If Ethan likes it, it is great. And Ethan loves it. and my wife likes it, and I love it. So, now we have some family game nite stuff to work with. Good times. Twenty years past my video game prime I am suddenly catching on to the fad.
Recently, I bought Ethan a Wii. Then I bought him Tiger Woods golf. Turned out the Tiger Woods golf was a bit too complicated, so I have only played it once.
The BIG Wii breathrough came this weekend when my neighbor loaned us (or gave -- I am not sure which) MarioKart. THIS THING IS THE BEST.
If Ethan likes it, it is great. And Ethan loves it. and my wife likes it, and I love it. So, now we have some family game nite stuff to work with. Good times. Twenty years past my video game prime I am suddenly catching on to the fad.
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