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Friday, September 21, 2012

Yes, Your Child is Difficult

Every parent overestimates their child to some degree.

He is SO SMART.  Mine gets into MORE TROUBLE.  She was talking/reading/walking/playing the didgeridoo BEFORE ANY OTHER KID.  He NEVER SLEEPS.

So parents overhype their kids.  I know, I know.  In other news, water is wet.  So what?

Well, it's natural to do.  The things you see as a parent are stunning, like exploring a wild jungle that no outsider has ever visited.  You see beautiful, frightening things there for the first, and maybe the only time in your life.  You'll replay these events and scenes over and over in the coming decades.  It's all quite incredible, and not easy to describe to nonparentals.

But there are some people, and you may never know quite who they are, that put up with more than the rest of us.  A lot more.

I give you this little gem by the brilliant Tim Dalrymple.

Philosophical Fragments - Yes, Your Child is Difficult

Left Behind in FauxCal

It seems this time of year I have little inclination to write.  Things are nice.  I'm not fired up about anything.  Or at least I'm not stupid enough to write about it.

The family has abandoned me again.  So that leaves me alone to crank up that old time rock n' roll music (and okay, CNBC too) and test the boundaries of legitimate taco ingredients.  And how long can one can actually subsist on tacos?  Current hypothesis is between 5 and 6 days, tops.  I'll let you know.

It's sort of like vacation time, but not near as enjoyable.  I don't know how in the world you single people do it.  I get the occasional text from H.M. or a picture of Jack or Princess Ringlet while they're hostages in Mobile.

Talking Point #0.5:  Everybody's good.  Jack got something like 5 pairs of new shoes in Alabama, because he had ah, exceeded recommended safety parameters on nearly every pair he owns.  Seriously, his toes were scrunched in there up against the end so hard that I was convinced his shoes would explode.  Caroline is wearing 24 month sized duds.  She was born in February.  Which makes her, what... carry the one...  somewhat less than 24 months old.

IS there HGH in the water, here?  IS that the secret to widespread athletic success in Texas?  Betcha I'm on to something, there.

Talking Point #1:  This week I have relearned what it feels like to go outside and... now listen to this part... not sweat.  It's not that it's cool, except in the morning, and certainly not to the point of indulging every ridiculous retailer in town trying to foist Shetland wool sweaters on you.  But the FauxCal weather is great while it lasts.

Talking Point #1(a):  Before the heat broke a few weeks ago, I actually saw a few people wearing sweater vests.  To give you perspective, it would be like witnessing someone stroll through the Kremlin... in January... in a bikini.

Talking Point #2:  You skewer okra, dust it with Tony's, paint it down with olive oil, and throw it on the grill.  It's really good.  AND qualifies as a vegetable.  AND more importantly is officially recognized by Majesty as a vegetable.  (We still quibble over cilantro, onion, and salsa verde.)

Talking Point #3:  Plumbing is yucky.  Really yucky.  You have no idea what is in your garbage disposal right now.  I mean, thar be dragons.  And mushed up rotten week-old key limes.  But the dragons, too.

Talking Point #4:  Being a dad in a suddenly empty house is probably a lot like being thrown in one of those sensory-deprivation chamber things.  The lack of sensory input (a.k.a. interminable noise) is jarring.

Enter Van Halen.

Friday, September 7, 2012

The Blues or Jimi Hendrix As Therapy

These kids are killing us.

One doesn't nap well, one doesn't nap at all.  When they do trip and accidentally fall asleep with the sun up, they're absolutely set on being up till 11 o'clock.  At night, one sleeps solidly, the other does not.  The one wakes early, the other no, but is awakened by the madrugador.

One is generally insane, most times comically so, possessed by forces beyond our control and description.  The other will placidly sit there like it's time to pose for a Rockwell painting.

One might be a slightly-picky, apparently? texture-sensitive eater.  One has never met a substance that he will not ingest.  Except chickpeas.  HATES chickpeas.  Hates 'em.

I tell him, "These aren't chickpeas, dude.  They're garbanzo beans."  "GAWHBAHNZO beans?" he asks.  Garbanzo beans aren't bad, and he eats those just fine.  Also loves hummus.  It's complicated.

Y'know, I did always wonder why the things had two names.  Now I know:  Hoodwinking fouryearolds.  I digress.

We - I really mean she - incessantly tends to the little one.  It makes sense.  That one is after all much louder.  The big one then takes that golden opportunity to douse our kitchen with a gallon jug of white vinegar.  The place smells like the most low-rent, wilted garden salad in the galaxy.  The fumes were so overpowering this morning that I got coffee + shockingly unhealthy breakfast elsewhere.

These kids are killing us.

They say when you got the blues, you need The Blues.  Okay, nobody says that.  Made it up just now.  Feel free to use it.

Let this one wash you clean, babies.  I give you... and me... Jimi.