Archive for February, 2013

2/20/13, Shopping Follies

“Are all doze pritty dresses for Daddy?”

“Sort of.  You can help me pick the best one . . . first we have to see if they fit.  Go sit on the bench, honey.”

Swing legs.  Swing legs.  Look at Mommy zipping up a dress. “That one’s yucky!”

“Oh, yeah?  Hmmm . . . I think you’re right.”

Sit quietly for exactly two minutes as Mommy zips and unzips as fast a possible.  Get down.  Make faces in the mirror.  Pace.  Pace.  Squat down to try and crane head up into the next stall.  Get hauled off the floor by the arm.  “Guess what I see, Mommy? . . .  Squishy Tushy!” Smack. Smack.  Jiggle.  Jiggle.

“Okay, okay.  That’s enough, or I’m gonna get your tushy.” Pinch. Pinch.  Giggle.  Giggle.

“I see a tummy, Mommy!”  Pat. Pat. Smack.

“Go sit down.”

“Argh!  Are we done yet?”

“Just three more. Go sit.”

“TUMMY!”  Whack! Whack! WHACK!

“Ouch!  No hitting!”

An old lady chuckles in next changing room.

That’s right, folks!  We’ll be here all week.  Be sure to tip your waitress.

 

2/13/13, Look, Mom!

“Look, Mom!” The six-year-old runs in wearing nothing but his Ninjago underpants. “I’m a bobble-head doll!  Wah. Wah. Wah. Wah.”  Head and arms swing back and forth at such an alarming rate that a brain might just fly out of a skull.

“That’s great, honey.  Can I finish peeing now?”

 

 

 

2/12/13, You’ll always be baby to me…

“Who did you play with at recess today, honey?”

“No one.”

“What do you mean ‘no one’?”

“All of my best friends that I usually play with were absent.”

“So what did you do?”  Mom face drops into a worried frown.  Memories of recesses spent sitting alone next to the lunch ladies come rushing back.  Urge to grab baby monkey and cuddle him within an inch of his life takes hold.  Pink Floyd’s “Mother” begins to play faintly in the background.

“I sat in a corner by myself . . . and thought about my life.”

Record scratch.  “You did what?”

He grins.  “I’m just kidding, Mom!”

2/5/13, “Totally Rockin’”

Gorging on Superbowl leftovers, the monkeys put in their sandwich orders:

“I want ham and salami and pepperoni and Capicola and . . . ”

Christ, he sounds like the Smails kid from Caddy Shack.  “Okay, okay, you want cheese?”

“Yeah, and cheese . . . and corned beef.”

A littler voice chimes in, “yeah and i want corned beef too.”

I hand over the grinders and blessed silence reins while they stuff meat in their mouths.  Swig beer.

“Mom?”

“What now?”

“This is a totally rockin’ sandwich!”

2/1/13, Goodnight.

“That’s it.  Everybody out of the bath!  Go get your jammies on.”

“Ahhh, Mom!”

“Jammies now or no stories.”

The two monkeys slump off to their rooms while I finish cleaning the water off the bathroom floor.  Five minutes later, muffled voiced and knocking sounds fill the hall.  The littlest monkey’s door is closed – never a good sign.  On my way to the door, I hear:

“Don’t touch the lava!”

“No, Fwankie, you go there first, then you can go this way.”

“Go! Go!”

“NO! You can’t go that way without a rocket ship!”

“BLAST OFF!”

Thunk.

I crack open the door and both monkeys are stark naked.  One is standing on a toy chest.  The other is mid-leap sailing from the chair to the bed.  Then one jumps from toy chest to chair.  All the room needs is a rubber tire on a rope and some shreds of lettuce in a bucket to be an exhibit at the zoo.

“BOYS! Jammies!  NOW!”

“Mom, we can’t!  We can’t touch the lava.”

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Yoink.  Click.  Goodnight.