Archive for November, 2012

11/8/12, Call of the wild

“Dad!  Guess who I met in school today.”


“A police officer.”

“Did they come to arrest you?”

“No, he taught us about gun safety.  If we find a gun we have to . . . stop (1 finger up), don’t touch (two fingers up), and leave the area and find a grown up (three fingers up).”

“That’s very good, son.  That’s exactly what you should do.”  Daddy pats the five-year-old on the knee.

“You know what I want to do when I’m old enough to touch a gun?”


Frankie puts his chin in his hand like Gene Wilder in all of those internet pictures and pats Daddy on the knee.  “I want to go hunting with you . . . and shoot deer and stuff.”

“Uh, okay, son,” says the ape that’s never even been camping.

To be continued . . . (hopefully not for many, many, many years)

Deer and stuff




11/7/12, Daddy knows best

“Frankie picked the eight of diamonds.  That means you do a somersault!”

Giggles from the next room.  Apparently daddy monkey just invented a game.  Cute.

“Okay, Henry’s turn!  You picked a Jack!  Scream as loud as you can!”

A shriek like a needle to the ear.  Not so cute.

“Frankie got a nine.  Jump off the couch!”

Squealing laughter and a THUMP!  Peeking around the corner, the five-year-old is rolling across the floor.  Jesus.

“Your turn, Henry. You got a joker!  A JOKER!”

All the monkeys seem very excited but they’re not sure why.

“Uhhh . . . that means you have to go and give mommy a hug and kiss!”

The three-year-old comes running and jumps into my arms.  He forcibly grabs my head, cranks it to the side, and plants one on my cheek.  Okay, cute.

“What’s next? What’s next? A three!  Frankie got a three!”

“What does a three do, Dad?”

“You have to . . . smell your own butt.”   Eww. Daddy has clearly run out of ideas.

“But that’s impossible!” Frankie protests.

A sigh from the far corner is relieved that the five-year-old is worldly enough to know the utter ridiculousness of the task.  Screaming as loud as you can?  Jumping off the couch?  Turn away. Bite tongue.  Debate sending everyone to bed.  Glancing back, both little monkeys have worked themselves into odd positions.  One is on his back with his legs over his head.  The other is crouched on the ground with his head between his feet.  Each is trying to see if Daddy knows best.

11/5/12, Bad Idea

“Mom!  I know how they made Frankenstein.”

“Oh, yeah?” Not really paying attention.

“Yeah.  They sewed parts of dead bodies together!”

Spatula drops.  Eyes widen in horror and dart to the three-year-old also sitting at the table.

“Oops!  I mean they . . .”  The five-year-old mines his limited vocabulary for a mom-friendly version of ‘dead bodies.’

Before he can find one, little brother chimes in.  “Dead bodies is a bad idea, Frankie.  Yeah, it’s a bad idea.”

11/4/12, Night terrors

4:00 a.m.

“Mom? Moooooooooom. Mom!”

“Henry? What are you doing up?”

“Somebody’s crying.”

Dead silence except the whirring of the fan in the hall.  “No one’s crying.  Go back to bed, sweetie.”

5:00 a.m.

There is crying in the hall.

“Henry!  What’s the matter?”  The little monkey is whisked into the mama’s den to avoid waking the others.

“I heard da dunder.”

Dead silence except the fan.

“There is no thunder, honey.  Everything is alright.  Try to sleep.”

After a few minutes laying next to Mommy, there’s a whisper, “Somebody’s crying.”

Disoriented and exhausted, Mama begins to wonder if the baby ape can hear dead people.  Totally creeped out, she escorts him back to bed.

6:00 a.m.

A tiny head pops up in the dark.  “Mom!”

“Jesus!  Henry!  You scared me.  What?!?!”

“I got a booger.”

With a sigh, Mommy hauls her carcass out of bed to fetch a tissue.

In the bathroom, the little one whispers, “Do you remember the crying?”

In the screeching light of the bathroom the little monkey looks pale – half dead really.  Mommy forces herself to roll her eyes.  “Yes, Henry.  It was me.”




11/3/12, I okay now


A tiny monkey screams in the forest.  Then the crying begins.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.  A mother’s feet shakes the trees.  “Frankie!  What did you do to your brother?”

“Well, um, he was bothering me . . . and so I hit him?”

“That’s it.  Your light saber is going in time out!  Go sit on the stairs and count to 30.”


Yoink.  “I don’t care.  We don’t hit.  Go sit and count!”

The littlest monkey is lying on the ground in a pile weeping pathetically.  He screams again when a plastic light saber is wrenched from his fist.  With the drama of a Shakespearean tragedy he wails, “Why you take it?  Why you take mine?”

“You’re hurt.  We don’t play with light sabers when we’re hurt.”

The tiny monkey immediately sits up.  His eyes are suddenly dry.  “I okay now.”



11/1/12, Five Minutes

“Boys!  Five more minutes and we’re turning the games off.”

No response.

In a louder voice, “Boys, I’m talking to you.  Do you hear me?”

Nothing.  Not even a blink.

Still louder. “We are turning off the tablet and the Leapster in five minutes.  Got it?  Say ‘Yes, Mom.’”

Still nothing.  Tap, tap, tap.   Nothing.  A marching band could come stomping through and the little zombies wouldn’t look up.

“That’s it,” an irrelevant voice mutters quietly to itself. “If you’re not going to answer me, I’m taking them away right now.”

Two little heads pop up from their screens, eyes wide with alarm.  “Okay, Mom. Five minutes.”