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Monday, December 27, 2010

Journey to the Center of ARKANSAS

I'm remiss.  You know, for not posting.  I could fill about 24 single spaced pages with the past week or two.  Where to start?  How to catch up?  The Harding U trip was a...  well, it was a trip.  Was our first time back to the alma mater in a decade-plus.  The one horse town we left back in the 1990s has got itself properly moved on up to the East Side:  They have a Chili's.

The first night at the hotel, Jack had the privilege of sleeping on a big boy, adult (fold-out couch) bed.  We finally got him down, and everyone was adios for the night.  Until I launch out of bed at 11pm after hearing a massive thud.  Jack had fidgeted himself right out of his huge expanse of bedding material, right onto the floor.  He hits the carpet hard, but rubs his eyes and never wakes up even as I shovel him back into bed.  The parents both agree, we'd now take this dude with us to Thailand, Uzbekistan, or Costa Rica.  This brother is a TravelBaby.

Besides the Chili's, there's a hibachi grill.  No kidding.  With real-deal Japanese folks running it.  Question:  How do you end up in the dead middle of ARKANSAS from JAPAN?  That's a long, long, llllloooooonnnngggg way, last I checked.  Jack really digged (dug?) the flames and the obligatory choo-choo onion trick.  FAYWAH! [Fire!] was all he could say forever.  I'm thinking that showing him 3-foot high towers of flame might have awakenened something best left sleeping.  Time will tell, but I'm buying asbestos jammies immediately.

The idea later that night was to go look at the neato Christmas lights on campus, but what actually happened was Jack (again) eating pavement and spitting lots of the red stuff out of a blackened, pfabat libbup.  My venomous quote as we hastily left the scene:  "I'll get you, Harding!"

The whole point was to take Jack to witness Uncle Blake graduate.  But the real show was taking Jack over to the college house.  Did I mention that they've got a full drum set, guitars, amps, and a mic?  Jack rocked (YAOUD!) with the two uncles for at least an hour, and ended up on the drums pounding the toms and the cymbal like it was his job.  That's right, my two year old, on the drums.  Ridiculous.  Everyone erupts with laughter and screaming when he nails the cymbal, and he throws up the touchdown, I AM A ROCKSTAR IN DIAPERS pose with the drumsticks.  I think I had as much fun snapping photos as he did.  Maybe not.  The highlight of the jam session was Uncle Jay's impromptu skaa Jingle Bells mixed into some Sublime.

TravelBaby was such a trooper on every flight to and from, but we figured our luck would eventually run out.  So thanks to the magic of iEverything, I loaded The Sound of Music on my phone for the plane ride back.  Genius move on our part, and a huge hit with the Frequent Flyer Sprog.  I recommend it.  Anyway, the dude was so tuckered out after we hit Houston that we couldn't wake him up from his nap. Shook him, turned on lights, we talked to him, but he simply withstood every method.

Had a great Christmas.  Jack got toys.  Shocker, I know.  I'll try to outline all the egregious gift action later on.

So later on, then.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The Elves Have Left the Building

My illustrious and all-knowing wife helps me out quite a bit, and has for about a decade, plus.

This is no surprise.

And furthermore it's no real surprise that she helps me out with this here blog, by putting the sprog's activities to paper and giving them to me to blatantly misrepresent faithfully record.  It's usually an email or a scrap of paper entitled "Blog Notes."  Well, bingo.  This week has been long on work, short on time.  So you'll have to be content with Blog Notes with snarky (and arguably explanatory) Notes to the Blog Notes.  Duly noted?  Okay, then, herewego:

i told jack this morning that i was going to the doctor today.  i said "the doctor is going to look in my ears and nose and mouth and listen to my heart.  jack said "and she's gonna measure you!"

Majesty has been sick almost pushing one of those fortnight things, after catching the funk from Jack.  She's now generously given it to me.  The kissing.  It's gotta be the kissing.  It has to be stopped.  I digress.  Anyway, unless you're about 12, and your final adult height is still clouded by some uncertainty, most docs seem to just forego the whole measuring thing.  H.M. told me after the visit that, just like the little swami predicted, she got measured.  I demand to know how he learns this stuff.

jack's new favorite instrument is the bagpipe.

Uh, yeah.  You'll remember in The Twelve Days of Christmas where the eleven pipers pipe?  Majesty reckoned that JMW had never seen a set of pipes, well, ever.  Enter YouTube, and people bored enough to upload bagpiping videos.  They're out there.  Jack now walks around clutching big butterfly ornaments from the tree, their long wires stuck in his mouth, making the most awful of noises.

jack's "ice skates" - you need the picture to go along with this.

 The Lego phase has begun, as expected.  But I never planned on my son teetering on 2 long, straight, black Lego 4-blocks, gingerly balancing himself while he scrapes around the room, yelling EYE SKATINDG!  EYE SKATINDG!  And nope, I don't have the picture with me.  Promise I'll post documentation for this as soon as I can.

today i think he was doing "chin-ups" like daddy.  he was standing on 2 cans and holding on to the island, and counted everytime he popped his head up above the island.

jack's saturday out with daddy.

(Again, a very sick) Majesty needed to rest last Saturday, so Jack and I went to our local park.  It doesn't hurt that it's about 90 seconds away, either.  He was great, playing in the dirt, on the big kids' playground, on the little kids' playground, and pretty much everywhere in between.  The weather was fantastic, and I didn't even mind that he BASE jumped off of the tippy-top of the big kids' equipment (I caught him in mid-air, halfway down.  It was an awesome grab.).  Or that he tried to eat some abandoned orange slices off a park bench (disaster averted by about a picosecond).

Along the pathway there's one of those neglected sets of chin-up bars, the old metal ones with three different heights.  Neglected because they're not as much fun as an Xbox, let's face that.  Desperate to fill time, I grab Yakubu, setting him on my feet so he can grab one leg or other.  I manage about 8 or so of the most painful reps in memory.  Is he eating lead fishing weights when we're not looking?

Was it coincidence that I did an all-time personal best on chins the next morning in the gym?

Majesty has had to deal with several dodgy Christmas ornaments over the years that rub her fur exactly the wrong way.  Like those featuring The King.  They play music.  They're tacky.  I love 'em.  So we ended up teaching Jack who Elvis was.  And the rest is history:

i was telling jack today about santa's helpers at the north pole, the elves.  jack thought i said "elvis" so now he thinks that elvis helps santa make toys... maybe he's onto something?!

It would explain where he's been since 1977.  At some point after reading this, you'll find yourself as I did, sitting in your car, imagining this going down in Santa's Workshop:


You can't escape.

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."