Monday, December 6, 2010

Parquet: Not for Eating

Barack isn't the only one looking like Tie Domi this week.

I did it.  I let it happen.  On my watch.  I let the best looking face around this joint magnificently faceplant into our parquet floor.  We filled up two paper towels with blood and trucked off to the E.R.  Yikes.

Majesty, of course, wasn't there, because this kind of parental negligence can only be handled by someone as dumb as me.  Anyway, Jack has this affinity for being YAPPTUP [wrapped up] in my soft old Royal Stewart flannel.  He looks like a little (Scottish) Masai.  But the arrangement has the obvious flaw of limiting arms that need to be outstretched during say, a gravitational emergency.  The reason why I let him run around like this can only be chalked up to willful idiocy.  Just flat out refusing to acknowledge the inevitable smack.  Oh boy, I be five kindsa stoopid.

As I've noted before, this kid is made out of pig iron.  He's got a pain tolerance that borders on the inhuman.  About a minute or so after the tears and red stuff, he finishes abruptly (I'm now grabbing my wallet, keys and hat) and yells TATUYATOR!  YANNIT!  [Oh loving father, may I please have the adding machine laying yonder on the credenza?].  So he's fine, just calmly playing with the calculator all the way to the hospital.  No crying, no nothing, other than regularly sucking on his getting-even-more-gigantic-by-the-second-lip, interspersed with, I IN THE CAAW!  I DWIVING!

H.M was getting her coiffure coiffed at the, uh, moment of impact and met me up at the ER.  The place was a fully functional zoo.  Thankfully our own on-call pediatrician pulls our card and tells us to go home and see a dentist the first thing next morning.  We find out then that the teeth are a little loose, and should (probably?) be fine, and that apples are off the menu for awhile.

I will now slink back under my rock.  Carry on.

Heard on the Street
Jack now coughs and says, BWESS YOU.  Every.  Single.  Time.

I'm a bit of an overexplainer.  Okay, I'm a lot of an overexplainer.  And we're now pretty sure those genes didn't stop with me:
Majesty:  What does Santa eat?
Jack:  Milk and cookies.  Like Cookie Monster.
Majesty:  What is on Santa's face?
Jack:  A mustache.  Like Mr. Potato Head.
And it explains everything in high decibels, too.  In his words, "I TAWK YAOUD...  USING SPEEKERS."


Jennifer said...

Sorry to hear about the face plant, but glad to know that J. understands the importance of continuing on with mathematical computations even in the face of an emergency room trip.

Anonymous said...

So glad Jack is ok after his unfortunate episode. But mathmatics go on.