Monday, June 25, 2012

The Sartorial Busybody

So the picture quality on this one is awful, but it's the content I find appealing.  This is who walked into the kitchen this morning.  He had previously been wearing long (winter) jammies.  Originally, I had put him to bed in altogether different jammies.  Note the wool peacoat, mongrammed shirt for Sundays, fuzzy fleece pants, and rubber camo galoshes.

This is almost an exact recreation of my gig's formal dresscode.  Really keeps the chill off when the heat index gets north of 110 degrees around here.  (Incidentally the galoshes are useful in pooling all that sweat running down your legs, and the monogramming helps the medical examiner identify you after the inevitable heatstroke.)

That's really par for the course with Jack these days.  He's completely obsessed - no that's not it - consumed with changing clothes.  And clothes themselves.  And asking about clothes.  And shoes.  Belts.  Bandanas.  Hats.  And buttons, don't get me started on the buttons.  We're thiiiiis close to cutting all the buttons off the entirety of his wardrobe.  I mean it.

He'll abruptly walk in to the bathroom while I'm shaving and announce, more than pose the question, "DADDY AWH YOU... AWH YOU... AWH YOU WEAHWING YOUWH BLUE... SHUWHT?  DADDY, IS THAT A POLO SHUWHT?  DO WE THE TOHP BUTTON ON A POLO... SHUWHT?"

We turn him immediately around (usually preempting the sartorial conversation) and march him out of the room.  He can come back in only with a proper (and loud) "GOOD MOWNING!"

If you leave him to his own devices for more than 27 seconds, it's an absolute certainty to see a different outfit come out of that room.  Either way, there is a constant stream of painfully obvious clothing questions.  "DADDY?  DADDY?  WHY DO YOU WEAWH A... BEWLT?"  "MOMMY, YOUWH EAWHWINGS ARE TOO BIG."

And it makes los padres crazy.  I mean loco.
The Other One is still a sweet little baby gal (okay, kind of little, she's ridiculously tall/long) with a gentle, happy personality.  And she's just starting to interact with her world.  A quick story from a few weeks ago in, where else, church:

We sit on the frontish-right of the auditorium.  It wasn't really a conscious choice, it just happened to be the most deserted place to sit when we showed up a couple of years back.  But the point is, most of the people in worship can see over there if they want to.  As I did with Jacques, I draw baby holding duty in church.

SuperDuper Preacher sits right there across from us.  And this particular night is when Caroline decided a few things for herself.  She decided that (1) she did not like being up on my shoulder, (2) she didn't enjoy being cradled in my arm like a football, and that (3) she'd like to try her hand at singing.

So I prop her up on my knee, rocking her from port to starboard as I hold her up and we stare deeply into the other one's eyes trying not to smile first.  Hey, it's cheap entertainment, but it's what we've got.

The singing was really going great, as it usually does, when she decides to pipe up LOUDLY with the cute baby sounds amplified about 1,000 times over.  The squeaking and the screeching and the trailing, happy cries just crack me up.  Just kills me.  The times when you shouldn't laugh are the times best at inducing laughter.  After a bit, I get hold of myself and notice something.  Everyone else around us is cackling with laughter, too. Including SuperDuper Preach.  Yes, we're the family that distracts a full quarter of the congregation.  That's us.

It got so ridiculous that we earned ourselves a mention in the sermon's intro.  Naming and shaming really, really works.  We've learned our lesson.  I think.

I tried to duck behind Caroline.  Didn't work.

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