Barely Propping Myself Up Today

crutch, noun – Anything that serves as a temporary and often inappropriate support, supplement, or substitute; prop.  (See coffee.)

I Hope Not, But Could Be

Yesterday I was asked if I thought that if perhaps L’s “inexplicable” heartbroken mood on Tuesday might have something to do with the mood I was in, but didn’t express here until Wednesday.

Could be.

A Brief (Delayed) Silence

(I meant to do this yesterday, but other things occupied my attention.)

Silence, and a candle for all those people in your life you were once close to and now .  . . for one reason or another, you’re not anymore.

So I’ve Changed My Mind, Let’s Try The Fussing Again

Son, lately you’ve been going through a “fussy” phase, and by “fussy” I mean, “If I hear you make ‘that noise’ one more time, my last nerves may commit seppuku.”(1)  But, I recently told myself, at least I’ve finally adapted to the worst he’s going to throw at me for a while.

Today I learned I was . . . incorrect.

Angry and frustrated you is difficult to be around, don’t get me wrong, but inexplicably heartbroken you is so much harder.

Let’s not do that again for a while, okay?  For now, let’s just stick with what works.

*****

(1) I’m exaggerating, of course, so don’t sweat it, kiddo.   There’s a reason they don’t call your current age the “terrific twos,” you know.

It’s Not NECESSARILY What It Sounds Like (And I’m Sticking To That) [PG-ish+, Depending On What YOU Are Thinking Of]

Over the weekend I realized there are some aspects of fatherhood that life really can prepare you for in advance if you pay enough attention.  This realization came to me when I was out with L. over the weekend, and glanced down to see his chocolate and melted ice cream covered little hand moving to grab my hand.

Upon seeing this, my internal monologue went approximately as follows:

Gah!  That looks sticky, I mean really sticky!  I wonder if there’s any way I can avoid getting that all over me?

Nope . . . I guess not.

This isn’t so bad.  This isn’t so bad.  Just keep telling yourself that this isn’t so bad!

Huh . . . actually it’s not so bad.  Go figure.

Then I remembered having the same conversation with myself back when I started dating too . . .

An Artist In Training

I should preface this by explaining that L. is “passingly fond” of Thomas the Tank Engine, and by “passingly fond,” I mean he’s obsessed by everything about the show.  Long before I could identify the trains by sight, he was correcting me on their names, and recently his game with them has become “go find.”  Now this isn’t a problem when it’s “go find” a train he actually has, but sometimes he wants to “go find” a train he’s seen on the show, but that we don’t have.

So when I was out the other day and saw a train for sale that he didn’t have but has been trying to “find” for a while now (Spencer), I thought it would be fun to buy it for him, take it out of the package and place it on his bed, then wait a bit before asking if he wanted to “go find” Spencer.  To my satisfaction, he was predictably delighted that he had finally “found” Spencer.

This lasted all of three seconds.

Then he looked at me and asked “Go find Bill and Ben?”  (Two other trains he doesn’t have.)

Congrats, kiddo.  I think you just ran your first solo con.

(I’d feel worse about falling for this, but, honestly, some of the time I used to write this entry only came about because he went off again to “go find” Diesel 10.  I really should pick one of those up for you, kiddo, and I will.)

(Someday.)

The Power Of Suggestion

Do you know how to tell when you’ve woken up in a suggestible mood?

When you’re reading something you know was written tongue-in-cheek, and you still think to yourself, “I want everything I own to be powered by the whispered sighs of angels.”

NOW I Can Let This Go

Eye-chlamydia . . . really?

I mean . . . talk about lookin’ for love in all the wrong places . . .

A Sour Joke

Yesterday I was informed by L’s mother that the bottle on top of the dryer was filled with fermenting kefir.  (I’m not quite sure how I ended up in a household where kefir would be fermenting in the first place, but I digress.)

“I didn’t know you had any kefir grains left,” I said.

“I don’t,” she replied.  “I’m using some kefir we already had to make more.”

“I see,” I said sagely, “so in other words . . .”

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(Wait for it.)

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“The only thing we have to kefir . . . is kefir itself.”

Because It’s Better Than Getting “Eye-Chlamydia”

Despite the admonition that one should be prepared for “anything,” let me just say I’m not sure how I could have prepared myself for the taste of my own blood following my lip being torn open by an errant toddler claw.

(“Eye-chlamydia” coming up in conversation was the other thing that happened today that I wasn’t prepared for, and if I get a choice which one happens again, I’m going with the lip wound.)