Wednesday, November 18, 2009


Isaac's in the tub. Although this is irrelevant to the story, he has been in there for an hour and 15 minutes. Her says he's going to "stay in there forever".

Isaac looks up at me: Daddy, I'm playing with my buttcrack.


There's hairs growing down there.

oh, yeah?

Isaac pauses, crinkles his forehead.

"GET THEM OUT!!!!!!!"

Not sure how to break this to you, son...


Isaac goes over to the computer. Sits down, turns it on, opens the internet browser, goes to his favorite website, and starts playing games.

Beck: Isaac, how'd you get so smart?

Isaac: Because I am a duck.


Jack is a "glass-is-half-full" kinda guy.

I might go so far as to say he's a "glass is 5% full" guy on most applicable occasions.

So this week darn near drained the poor kid's glass. Flu AND pneumonia. At the same time. Fever, the pukes, the other end...

He wimpered himself to sleep on Sunday night.

Enough to break your heart.

So Beck drags his sorry little ass to the pediatrician first thing Monday. Puffy eyes, nose like a faucet, achy, exhausted.

Dr Gately: How are you this morning, Jack?

Jack: (considers the question carefully) "Umm...a little bit good."


So Isaac is almost 3.

Three is an age of exactitude. It's the age where your child really starts acting like a 90 year old aristocrat with dementia. They want things done in a certain way, for reasons inscrutable to the rest of society, and god help you if you put the peanut butter on the wrong side of the bread.

Yesterday, Isaac was indulging in his latest favorite thing, boiled eggs. Last week he liked the whole egg. This week he only likes the white part, next week he will most likely shun the white for the yolk, and by June he will reject eggs all together (just in time for my chickens to arrive, for those of you who follow my other posts...).

Having been warned by rebecca that Isaac is no longer into the yolk, I peel an egg for him and start to open up the white to extract the hated center. Isaac starts screaming like I'm cutting off his arm.

! DON'T BREAK IT!!!!!!

I drop the egg and step away, heart racing a bit.

"Whoah, buddy. Don't you want me to take out the yolk?"

"Yeah, but don't break the egg."

"Ummm...I kind of have to break it to get the yolk out."

"NOOOOOOOO!!! Dont break it!!"

"Okay, man, here. You deal with it." I give him the whole egg, and he eats away at the white until the poisonous yolk is exposed, then he hands it to me, and I extract the yolk. He happily gobbles the rest. Crisis averted.

"Daddy, I want a nudder one!"

I get one out of the fridge and peel it.

"I want you to take the yolk out."

Hmmmm. Sticky situation....

"Isaac, I have to break the white part to get it out. Is that okay?"



I run a knife aroud the white, split the egg open, and take out the yolk. Isaac doesn't scream but he looks a little worried. I hand him both halves of the egg. He looks at the for a long time, and then thrusts them back at me.

"I need you to put it back together."


So Sunday was Mothers Day. I decided that the boys and I should bring Mommy breakfast in bed. I realized how odd this ritual might seem to someone not familiar with it when Isaac, upon delivering Rebecca her toast, said

"Here Mommy, you can eat this while you SLEEP!"


Isaac now includes his preferred response with his request:

"Daddy, I going to have another cookie, that's OK."



"Daddy, you don't have to be angry just like a duck."


Yesterday was Circus Day, part of my long-weekend birthday extravaganza, which was - of course - pretty much centered around the kids. (cuz if the boys aint happy...)

They set up the big top in the park, which is just a 10 minute walk from our place. We get there, find our seats, and Jack and Isaac, like every other kid there, starts staring at the light-maker things. You know the things. Some spin, some are wands, swords, ect. The brilliant marketing strategy is that once a few kids have them, EVERY OTHER KID IN THE PLACE *NEEDS* ONE. Like their life depends on it.

Yielding to the inevitable, I ask the boys which ones they want, wave the guy over, and laugh in his face when he tells me $15 each.

Then I buy them.

Jack enjoys turning on his light up sword and waving it around a bit.

After five minutes or so, I look over and he is just staring at it.

"What's up Jack", I ask.

"Daddy? WHAT are these things FOR???!!!"


This happened a while back. Can't believe I forgot to list it...

I had been making ice cream for a friends birthday. I am a bona-fide ice cream freak, and have a huge noisy ice-cream-making contraption that leaks water, so I have to sit it in the bathtub while it runs.

Yes, we live in chaos.

While I was in the middle of a batch, with many tools and ice-cream machine parts strewn on the (tiny) bathroom floor, Jack announces that he has to go potty.

" No sweat, man", I tell him, "it's all yours".

He come back out after a few minutes,
head cocked to the side,
eyes a little squinty, and informs me,

"Dad, I can't poop with all that crap in there."


Jack, describing his hobbies to an adult friend:

"I like to play games.

With stuff."


Isaac picks up the phone to talk to Grammy:

"Hi Grammy.
It's me, Isaac.
I'm a robot,
so I'll have cashews for you tomorrow, OK?"


Isaac: Daddy! You are a man and Mommy is a woman.

Me: That's right Isaac.

Isaac: A woman is a kind of animal.

Me:Oh yeah? And what about men?

Isaac: Men are animals too........It's not that difficult.


I just got off the phone with Beck. She had to let me go, because Jack walked into the room, red face, tear-stained cheeks, and said,

"It's true.

I really can't."


I was barely able to wake up today. Just one of those mornings when you feel completely robbed by the universe. I somehow managed to pour coffee, pull a waffle out of the fridge and put it in the toaster, and collapse into a chair at the table. The boys had requested fish sticks and broccoli for breakfast, so Jack was sitting across from me in front of a plate of fish-stick-particles and leftover ketchup, thoughtfully working on an ice-cream cone.

I try to focus my bleary eyes on my food. I clumsily cut my waffle with my fork, and the piece flies off my plate, off the table, and onto my bare foot. The syrup starts to ooze between my toes. Jack pulls the cone away from his mouth, cranes his neck to see where the waffle landed, smiles a world-weary smile, and explains,

"Daddy, gravity does crazy things to your food."