Category Archives: Little Weirdos

Gone Boy

It was just like one of those horrible Lifetime movies my wife makes me watch with her on Sunday afternoons when we could be viewing something culturally redeeming, like football.

I was just about to step into the shower before work when my wife opened the bathroom door and asked, “Where’s the baby?” He’s still the baby at two and a half.

I scanned the tight quarters of our bathroom. “He’s not in here.”

“He’s not in his bed,” she said. She smiled when she said this, because Big Man has been known to wake up early and go downstairs to start his day without telling anybody.

She went out and I turned on the water. Big Man was surely downstairs getting his crayons out, setting up to draw on some important papers or maybe the living room wall.

Something made me stop. I went out, meeting my wife coming up the stairs. “I can’t find him downstairs,” she said.

We went into the boys’ room. The blinds were down so it was still pretty dark. We could see enough to recognize Buster, sleeping peacefully in his bed. Big Brother was all knotted up in his blankets. Big Man’s bed was empty.

Everything I saw when I first looked at his bed.

Everything I saw when I first looked at his bed.

We went downstairs and began turning on lights. The illumination revealed my total nakedness (don’t dwell on this image; your mind’s eye might go blind) but no sign of Big Man. Maybe he was in the pantry, foraging some breakfast. Nope. He might be under the dining room table, concocting breakfast from escaped bits of last night’s dinner. Nope. There was no sign of him downstairs.

“All the doors are locked,” my wife reassured me. Neither of us was smiling anymore. I’m sure she was recalling the same news reports I was of children being stolen at night, right out from under their parents’ noses. We’d viewed these reports with skepticism, until now.

A search of the guest room revealed nothing, except that my heart was beginning to beat faster. I returned to the boys’ room and turned on the light, no longer concerned with disturbing anyone’s sleep. Big Man’s bed was still empty, but in the light I saw what I’d missed before.

From behind the skirt, hanging down below his bed, protruded one toddler-sized foot. I lifted the skirt and there he was, zonked out like a happy little fugitive, underneath his bed.

Upon closer inspection . . . If not for that protruding foot, he would have only been discovered by the K-9 Unit.

Upon closer inspection . . . If not for those five protruding little piggies, he would have only been discovered by the K-9 Unit.

My heart rate slowed as I took my shower. When I got out my wife reported that our roving sleeper had found his way back to the top side of his mattress.

As I was getting dressed, he sauntered into our room. We asked him where he’d been. He trotted back into his room and pointed under his bed, as if that were the most normal place to be.

We asked him why he was sleeping under his bed. “Wawee under there,” he replied. Wawee is what he calls Buster.

Typical boy. Blame it on your brother.

A simple (breakfast) plan

Saturday mornings I feed the boys breakfast. They all like bacon, and some of them like pancakes. Since there are no two foods they all like, this meal choice is the closest thing to a winner. A box of donuts has a greater chance of universal acceptance, but there are only about half of all Saturdays when I consider donuts a meal choice.

Bacon and pancakes are not difficult for a man to cook. They are a considerable challenge for a man and three overzealous helpers.

The electric griddle must be plugged in, and we’ve got a guy for that. Big Man, the self-appointed plugger inner and lighter upper of all things, will lodge a complaint with his union if anyone else attempts to push the cord into the griddle.

Bacon is first on the cooking surface, and everybody wants a part of that wonderment. Bacon is nothing less than a miracle. All the disciples need to be near it, nurturing it along its journey to delicious.  None recall how it spit grease at them last time – how could something so precious do a thing so uncouth? Daddy knows bacon’s dark side; the helpers are moved to pancake duty.

Forget the fireworks next July 4th. We're all going to enjoy the thrill of cracking eggs.

Forget the fireworks next July 4th. We’re all going to enjoy the thrill of cracking eggs.

Everybody wants to pour the pancake mix, but nobody knows when to stop pouring. I make them stand down and pour the mix myself, explaining I don’t want the whole box dumped out. It turns out the box is almost empty so I end up pouring it all into the bowl. “I could have done that,” Big Brother mocks. He’s right, so I quell my impulse to hit him over the head with the empty box.

The egg is the most coveted part of the entire pancaking process. I’m a remedial egg cracker. My wife bought me a special device to help me gain confidence. It was cheaper than a copy of Egg Cracking for Dummies. Everybody yearns to operate the egg cracker. It’s Big Brother’s turn. He cracks the egg flawlessly, but balks at the task of removing the slimy shell from the device.

My egg cracker for the specially challenged with Big Man's best Kilroy impression in the background.

My egg cracker for the Specially Challenged, with Big Man’s best Kilroy impression in the background.

Buster adds the milk as I hawk over him, shouting, “Stop, stop, stop!” after every few trickles, in constant fear he will let it all flow out into our bowl of pancake soup.

When Buster gets the proper amount of milk in the mix, or close enough, Big Man mounts his kitchen stool and stirs. I should be monitoring the bacon, but I’m busy keeping the bowl from sliding off the countertop.

Buster chides me for letting the bacon cook too long. I don’t believe it’s overcooked, but Buster is not completely confident in my ability to help him cook bacon.

We cook plain pancakes first. Then Big Man and I add blueberries. Big Brother doesn’t like blueberries. Buster only likes blueberries when they’re in a muffin I’ve been saving for myself.

Despite too many cooks in the kitchen, breakfast happened, but everybody lost their lust for helping when it came time to clean up.

The vast potential for growth in this job means he'll be able to see what he's mixing one day.

The vast potential for growth in this job means he’ll be able to see what he’s mixing one day.

 

 

Come sit in the love

One day, Big Man was sitting between my wife and me on the short couch we have in the back room. We are not particularly wide people, but with the multiple throw pillows our modern design culture demands at either end of a sofa, we made a snug trio. Buster came into the room, and not seeing a convenient nook into which to wedge himself among us, declared in disappointment, “I wanna sit in the love.”

It’s adorable to hear your four-year-old phrase a situation like this, and that was the trouble. You can hardly refuse a request to join the love. As comfortable as you might be, you can’t say, “Sorry; no room,” to a kid who just wants to be included in the circle of familial affection. You can say it in a heartbeat to a boy who wants a spot on your couch, but when that couch is the Love Boat, you have to shift your reluctant butt, jettison a throw pillow or two, and let down the gangplank.

It’s all worth it though, to reinforce a child’s appreciation for his family. That is, it would be worth it if there were any hope of that appreciation lasting more than one fleeting second. Unfortunately, love is always warmer when you are watching it from off the couch.

I don’t remember how our little lovefest ended, but it’s a safe bet it degenerated into a squabble between Big Man and Buster. An overpopulated sofa will cause that. So will almost anything else you can imagine.

Four-year-olds and two-year-olds can find a way to fight about anything, because it’s not about the thing, it’s the you got it; I want it sentiment. On that same principle, four-year-olds can find innumerable things to fight over with seven-year-olds. You would think a seven-year-old would run out of things to squabble over with a two-year-old, but that’s where you’re wrong. It turns out there is still a lot of two-year-old left in a seven-year-old. My wife might tell you there’s a lot of two-year-old left in a 48-year-old, but I disagree; I act much more like a four-year-old.

Sometimes you can share a tiny bit of space and time with your brother.

Sometimes you can share a tiny bit of space and time with your brother.

But sometimes you need the whole couch to yourself.

But sometimes you need the whole couch to yourself.

All of this fighting is how we are sure the love we sit in is real. None of them would have such vigorous disagreements with other kids. It’s only their brothers who inspire such depth of emotion. Only their brothers could ever send the message, “I’m kicking you because I love you.” Granted, that’s not the entire reason for the kicking (“You’re in my spot, Butthead!”), but it wouldn’t happen to someone less dear.

These boys have built the foundation for a lifetime of devotion to each other through their tireless efforts at fussing and feuding. It’s hard work being such a good brother like that. So, sometimes you’ve got to let all that love settle and just go sit in it for a minute.

You’ll fight better after a bit of rest.

New goat technology befuddles older generation

My boys are sharing a goat.

Let me explain.

The goat is virtual. It is a game app that allows the player to manipulate the activities of a standard goat.

It is really only Big Brother and Buster who are sharing this goat. I’m sure Big Man would be interested if it were a real goat – somebody he could pet or chase as the mood struck him. But he’s not really interested in screen goats, yet.

These flesh goats are so 2013.

These flesh goats are so 2013.

By sharing I mean they are constantly fighting over who gets to play the goat game. Big Brother is searching for some legal loophole or parents’ edict that will cause Buster to cease playing the game altogether. It’s not that he doesn’t want his little brother to have a happy childhood, but it seems as though you, or your goat, can build things in this game, and he lives in terror that the poorly trained, younger goatherd will somehow destroy all he, and his goat, have created.

This only makes Buster’s fire to play the game burn more brightly. I’m sure he understands as little as I do about how virtual goats build apartment complexes, but if Big Brother doesn’t want him playing, it must be an awesome game.

I don’t understand this fascination with the pixel goat. Sure, you can make him swim across a river and break things with his hooves, (Goats have hooves, right? I grew up with cows.) but I can’t figure out how that translates into an addicting game.

It’s not that I don’t like computer games. There are a handful of games I play. I even kind of get the appeal of Minecraft. In that game, you build up some kind of civilization (I think) while working toward some sort of goals (I think). And the best part is, you can create cats and dogs and then leave your tablet in the kitchen so your dad goes crazy trying to figure out where all the meowing and barking is coming from as he makes dinner. Who wouldn’t get a kick out of that?

But this goat I don’t understand. Every time I look at the game, the goat is just swimming or walking, or in the really exciting moments, sleeping. Who spends their time making a fake goat sleep? Okay, don’t answer that. The goat did build a house of some sort, so I guess there’s more to it than that.

How do you put a goat to sleep? Tap the sleep icon, of course.

How do you put a goat to sleep? Tap the sleep icon, of course.

I just can’t imagine my childhood revolving around virtual goats. I used to read, and play ball, and go swimming. My kids do that stuff too, and yet still find time for the goat. Maybe that’s the time I spent milking cows. Or maybe we had more innings in our ball games.

I’m trying to get Big Brother to read more and play games less. I wish I could get him to do so more willingly. Maybe he needs more interesting stories. Anybody know where I can find books about sleeping virtual goats?