‘Your sons are killing me’ June 08
Boys, I ought to apologize in advance for what is an entirely disjointed, wooly-headed monthly report held together by no more than a few stitches of thread and a giant letter ‘X’.
“Why does Alek got a ‘X’ on his head?” you ask, Adam, and that is both the quote of the month and the only truly significant thing I can summon to write about. I was tempted to leave it alone and let this month’s report consist of only those nine words and a single picture. But I changed my mind, if for no other reason than the tiny possibility that my words may sway some other young person from pursuing a career as a gravity-test dummy.
One day I came home from lunch to find your mother helping you to construct a Foon Puppet Theater. I was as surprised as I could be, but she seemed even more surprised, and kept asking herself, “Why am I dooling this? Why? Why?”
So, really, the big excitement this month was the enormous sharp bang that was the sound of Alek falling off the funt loom radiator, or rather that of your head connecting with the sharp corner of, I am guessing, the desk? because although I was technically ‘watching’ you, Alek, it is nearly impossible to prevent something like this happening, since every waking moment of yours is spent in utter jackassery and the wanton pursuit of bonks and cracks to the skull, and at some point a parent has got to dool some jackassery triage, if you take my meaning, and let gravity take its inevitable course. Which in this case led directly to a significant gap just above your right eye, a tidy egress for a large amount of blood which by the look of it was under some pressure and in some haste to meet the fresh summer air. Then on to the emergency room, perhaps our favorite place to spend a warm summer Friday evening.
In the stitches competition, Adam remains ahead in pure suture-count, but Alek is well ahead in terms of tender age. At the time Adam tore his face open, it really looked like a scar was likely, but no. Alek’s wound, stitches freshly removed, looks like it could have some staying power, but it’s in a pretty dashing location, so WHATEVER.
We didn’t take any pictures of you this month.
Alek is growing into Thomas fandom, and has added ‘Tuck’ to his lexicon, a catch-all that seems to apply to trucks, trains, and tracks with equal ease. Also added this month: ‘Cack!’
Adam, you had no problem with the first person for most of your life, but now you’ve suddenly gone all Elmo on us, and continually issue reports about what some person called ‘Adam’ wants, wishes, requires, etc. This seems to me a step backward lingustically, but WHATEVER. Tell Adam he’s not getting any more juice.
This reminds me that when we visited Germany last week, during which time we mysteriously took essentially no pictures of you or of anything else, you understood Olivka’s farewell tchuß to be an offer of a beverage. Language soup.
Wait, I was talking about progress this month, not beer and pretzels. So, you’ve made some serious leaps this month. When we break out the Old Bay, you can now peel your own frimps. Likewise, you finally figured out how to pedal your own bicycle this month, so there is one less reason for your father to walk around shaped like a question mark. You have totally MASTERED the alphabet now, including the alphabet of nations, from Algeria to Zimbabwe. Pretty amazing. You can throw a ball. Your dearest wish is to be allowed to go to school. Your interest in books grows daily, and you can practically recite “Green Eggs And Ham”. Your grandma Soozin brought you a reader called “Dazzling Diggers” last fall, and it’s become your favorite book since burning out entirely on “Can’t You Feep, Little Bear?” Last week I ordered two more books from the same series (“Terrific Trains” and “Amazing Aeroplanes”) and when they arrived you walked around the house for hours saying, “I am SO HAPPY dat dese new books came fum LON DON today!” Then again, you were equally excited about your new tube of toofpaste yesterday, so WHATEVER.
Nice work, Scarface.
A Marked Man
Friend:”Knee Scrape?”
Alek: “Germany.”
Friend: “Crooked Finger.”
Alek: “Italia.”
Friend: Friend: “And that “X”?”
Alek: “Funt Loom (see translation above).”
Friend: “??????”
Alek: “Slovenia.”
(…to be continued)
Comment by DarkoV — Friday 20 June 08 @ 15.30 MDT+2.00
Brilliant as usual.
I see that jackassery is already in the urban dictionary.
While I’m on the topic, I’d like to announce my successful submission of bitwrathploob to the dictionary.
Mmmm….beer and pretzels…
Comment by Erik R. — Friday 20 June 08 @ 16.14 MDT+2.00
I have a four-stitch scar similar to that above my left eyebrow (spin-dancing to Raffi, resulting in collision with corner of speaker in living room) and one at my hairline on my brow (jumping off the high walls of my friend’s front porch).
It’s why I can’t remember names and have a poorly developed sense of consequences.
Kidding. My mental deficiencies were REALLY caused by caffeine and booze. And not getting a pony when I was six.
Comment by Roo — Friday 20 June 08 @ 19.12 MDT+2.00
I cannot stop laughing at “Can’t You Feep, Little Bear?”
Comment by jane — Friday 20 June 08 @ 21.15 MDT+2.00
Chicks dig scars like that. It gives us something intimate yet safe to fondle.
We just got So a bike, and we kept thinking he was surely too young, but I guess not. I mean, if Adam’s doing it, then So should be, too. It seems to me that I didn’t learn how until I was older than 3, though. Meh. Kids these days.
Comment by jdog — Sunday 22 June 08 @ 07.42 MDT+2.00
Poor Harry Potter baby! ;0)
Comment by victoria winters — Thursday 3 July 08 @ 16.21 MDT+2.00