Spoons for crying out loud

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Office work

Ever wonder what the inside workings of a powerful prestigious Dallas law firm are like? I have decided to give you a glimpse by sharing a recent email that was circulated firmwide.

Subject: DIET COKE

Who drinks Sprite? I have never seen a single solitary soul in this office drink Sprite. . . Yet, we have about four cases -- cases-- of sprite in the refrigerator. All that ridiculous Sprite leaves very little room for DIET COKE. DIET COKE is better than Sprite. It is far superior for two reasons: I drink it and so does Blocker.

The new refrigerated beverage mix should be as follows:

DIET COKE : 88%

Coke : 12%

If someone wants a Sprite, they'll have to drink it warm.

Bobs

Da bobs. Let's say there is a blizzard. We're playing the New York giants, and our players are twelve inches tall, but we got the Bobs and he's full sized. . .I'll take da Bobs.

Who is da Bobs? Bobs is Lynzy's co-habitant. Boyfriend. O-sh!#.

Good news though. Bobs is a fine fella. He ordered this laptop for me. He also ordered me to write this.

Bobs is a good dude. I will tell you that his taste is footwear is a bit debatable. If the worst thing you have to say about a fella is his footwear is debatable, you probably got a good dude on your hands.

Serious peeps, I could not be happier that my daughter is dating a fine fella like Bobs. Note to all you single ladies out there -- remember what makes a difference. Compassion, devotion and general good heartedness are the finest qualities you can find in a man.

Note to Bobs: give up on the dirtbike, it ain't gonna happen for a while. . .

Child proofing

This is not about contraception. It is about one couple's enduring struggle to maintain sanity in the home. We have a son who dearly loves slamming doors and drawers. Cabinet doors. Slam. Door. Slam. Drawer. Slam. Slam slam slam I am. Seuss would love this plot line. He could do so much with it.

We spent the first few weeks/months getting used to the behavior. We spent the next ten months trying to correct it with every tool in our behavior adjustment toolbox. Persist it did. Now, we have entered into a new phase. We have accepted our inability to remedy this behavior. It is now time for def-con 5.

When you're in a deep hole and need an ally to resolve an unresolvable problem, no ordinary ally will do. What you need at that point is a nine hundred pound gorilla who has no feelings. Walmart. Perfect. Sixty dollars later, we had an arsenal or every child proofing lock and latch known to mankind.

Now, the cabinet and drawer slamming should soon cease. To be replaced with the constant aggravation and irritation of being nearly locked out of most of our house. . . That's where the other purchase I made at Walmart comes in handy. I'm drinking one now.

Pithy and Germaine

In college (at the Harvard of the South -- UT Arlington) I had a wonderful professor who once called one of my term papers "pithy and germaine." I have come to appreciate over the years how right she was. I took it as a compliment, which it may or may not have been. Nonetheless, my communicative style is direct, without much regard to prose. My writing is no different from my speech, which, sometimes if too quick to the point and direct.

In law school, contracts was my favorite class (first year). I seemed to excel in it for no apparent reason. My grade - based on one test- for the first semester was a B. I asked the prof what the problem was. In a box in his office were all the exam papers. He had me find mine and pull it out. Without ever reading it he suggested the reason for the B. The test paper was too short. Pithy and germaine not working for me in contracts. Next exam. . . I wrote neat little paragraphs and lots of them. Repeated myself to amplify the appearance of my answers. A.

I mention this by way of apology and explanation. I have been reading other blogs which have glorious narrative and prose. Mine is without either. Sorry. Can't help it.

So, hopefully, you like pithy and germaine. If you want prose, narrative and metaphors, I'll recommend some sites for you. I also promise to keep the Navajo tradition alive wi9th no less than one typo per post.

Thankful

Since becoming a father the people I appreciate most are the people who treat my kids the best. If you have kids, you probably feel the same way, whether you have acknowledged it before or not. In another time, I likely appreciated myself more than other people. You know, that American way of perceiving yourself as a self made man (or woman) despite the army of people that raised you, fed you, taught you and provided you opportunity. It was not until recently that I actually realized that I was only a part of my success. (I use that term in a limited sense.) That realization was only after I had children and realized how many people are important in a child's life.

My wife and I are blessed to live in a place where children are cherished. Both our kids have special needs. we have become part of the DS community locally. We keep up with a number of parents in other locales who have to fight kicking and screaming to get their children what they deserve. Here, my wife and I never have to ask, argue, beg or threaten. Our children are provided with what they need simply because some caring loving people see to it. I never realized how important these people are. I do now.

My oldest son is quite the charmer. At school, he is known in all hallways, by kids of sll grades, parents and teachers. ("I'm known in all five burroughs. Ask anyone about Lucky from Mulberry Street.") Everyone greets Ethan with a good morning. How cool is that? It is the product again of a deliberate effort to make sure all the kids in the school are treated as special and included. Man, that is cool.

Ethan has a full time aid that has tended to his extra needs for the past three years. Thank you. He has a parent friend who greets him everyone morning with a smile and a hug, sometimes helps walk him in. Thank you. He has teachers that consider his best interest as their foremost priority. Thank you. He has friends at school that accept him in the sweetest way. Thank you.

Nothing is better than to see people treat your children like the best thing in the world. It's the thing that makes me happiest in life and more thankful than anything.

PooPoo

Ahhh. Poopoo time. The best time of the day. If you have n0thing else to look forward to in your day, look forward to a good bm. And count yourself lucky. Not everyone has such comfort. Crohns, etc. Regularity is a good thing.

If you have children, I know you appreciate a few quiet minutes. In the few minutes, you should think about teaching your child to appreciate poopoo time. here's how we do it: The lil'un saddles up. . . I enthusiastically stand nearby and await to be told what to sing. It used to be Bare Necessities, lately it's been This Old Man. . . Then, once my song is picked, we do a little sing along. Makes poopoo time fun. Almost as fun as a few quiet minutes.

Introductions and golf.

Hello. My wife has a blog. I decided I wanted my own. Here it is.

This blog is a husband and father's perspective on family life. Plenty of sarcasm soon coming your way.

So, here I am with my dell mini cranking up a blog. Watching Madagascar for the 400th time with my eight year old. He's laying on my elbow sucking his thumb as we speak. He's a tired bug today. (You! higher mammal -- can u read?)

We have been learning how to golf. So far, we have achieved mastery of divots. Here's what I have learned:
Hitting chunks of mulch is more fun than hitting the ball.
If we do hit the ball, it must always be aimed at the street.
The person holding the club has the right of way, all others duck or move.
Three misses in a row gives you permission to pick the ball up and throw it.
Golf is a great sport. . . until you play it, then it's dumb.

More to come tomorrow my peeps.