Tuesday, January 10, 2012

The Christmas Download & Thoughts on Sumo

Lots of ground to cover here in the new year, so we'll see how much we get to and where this thing goes.

Christmas played out pretty much as expected with gifts aplenty and glitter all over our clothes and all that jazz.  Majesty labeled it an "extravaganza" for what that's worth.  This sounds like I didn't think much of the whole thing, which is false - but I'm sufficiently removed from the event to now be dispassionate.  If you get me.

Jack cleaned up.  You're shocked.   He got a work bench.  Like with a neato drill (it reverses?!) and all sorts of kid-friendly wrenches and hammers and tools and stuff.  It's branded by the ad wizards at Home Depot.

And thus passes the toy kitchen, or at least this particular chapter in its existence.  It had fallen into disuse and so we stuffed it out into storage until the Next One can busy herself with imaginary confections and pots of unimaginably strong pretend coffee.

This is a good place to note another parenting maxim:  The Principal of Substitution.  You can't just take stuff away.  That leads to the Dark Side, bro.  Nah, you sub in something (of equal or greater value, restrictions may apply, see store for details) and voila! you've got yourself an equilibrium.  Which is all any honest parent really wants.  We don't want butterflies and unicorns.  Okay, maybe we did way back there in the ether somewhere, but the idealism's almost completely washed out now.  No, what we want is for the Iranians not to go nuclear and snuff anybody out.  We want (controlled) chaos.  Like so:
H.M.:  Where is he?
E.C.:  Who?  Oh.  Up in his room, I think.  I mean, I heard stomping.  Crashes.
H.M.:  Fine.  I don't care what he tears up in there.
And that's the way it goes.  You just foolishly pray for nonaggression.  Because most parents are Chamberlain at Munich, dude.  Anyway, so make sure you've got a replacement ready before you start yanking stuff pell-mell.  You'll thank me for it.  I digress.

Christmas.  We were talking about Christmas.

He got a castle.  About time, you say.  I know, every man needs his kingdom and all that.  The thing's complete with a drawbridge, trap door, knights,  horses, crossbows, saddles, quivers, you name it.  There's a royal family (really just a figurehead now that the place is a constitutional monarchy).  There's even a court jester.  The really silly part of this is that we haven't even opened a few of the castle-y type gifts.  Don't tell Jack that.  Enough became enough.  Gonna save those for bribes rewards.

He snagged a Lightning McQueen RC car, which I've become rather adept at driving through my living room at alarming speeds.  You should see the air I we can get when I we send it hurtling over the steps.  Jack chases Lightning around and cackles.  This is 100%, completely, only, strictly for Jack's entertainment.  I just drive because I have to, okay.  Back off.

He also got a big Buzz Lightyear (Space WANE-JURH!).  Buzz sometimes goes by the alias Buzz Aldrin, if you can believe that.  Semantics.  Lessee, the rest of the list was 2 (!) globes, several new games, books and CDs (current favorite:  Mr. Sonny and the chorale singing church songs, $0.00) and lots of books.  Skippyjon Jones is the current favorite.  It's also Jack's new nickname.  This week.

Majesty fished Jack's favorite thing about Christmas this year from him:  "Probably singing and playing the guitar with Daddy and Uncle Blake."  For the record, Uncle Blake sang and played (Jack's) guitar.  Jack and Daddy wailed off key.  It was more fun than it was pretty.

Jack has started asking some big questions.  Where is heaven?  What is the gospel?  I just hope we have some big answers.  If we run dry, we've got several of you on speed dial.

Jack is playing with a random girl at the park. They run into each other.  Both experience a gravitational emergency, and this follows:
Tasha:  Are you okay?
Jack:  I'm okay; I'm a boy... and an astronaut.
Tasha:  I'm in a rocketship.
Majesty's take:  "They may be made for each other."  Hmmm.
Darth Jack cometh.  Imagine the least scary, most comically deep threeyearold voice ever, and you'll have the voice down cold.

Jack pours out of his room one day during The Time of the Quietness.  He wakes Majestad up, of course.  The child is wearing seventeen shirts.  That's the number 17.  H.M. counted.  There were multiple pants/shorts in play, too.  I took one look at the pictures Majesty sent me and started reevaluating our full-fat dairy decision.  Oh, note the direction of said shirts.  Frontswards, backswards... he don't care.  Roll Tide.

We're now at 34 weeks with the Girliest Girly Girl.  Had a really nice dinner with all our buds this weekend to celebrate... I dunno.  Uncomfortableness.

Lastly.  Jack has apparently decided we've gotten too soft and aren't ready for the responsibility of a new baby.  He's probably 100% correct, too.  So he's begun waking us up in the dead middle of the night - I guess for practice - and cajoling whoever will have him to snuggle.  The odds aren't great with either of his options, let's face that.  I then have to escort him up to his place and stay with him for a minute.  Where I pass out yet again.  Anyway, when Majesty already wakes up 10 times per night to take care of her bidness in the john...  she's not impressed.

One can only hope he'll whip us into shape in time.

No comments: