#86

Yesterday was a regular day.

Isaac and I made waffles. Five minutes out of bed and, when asked who wants to help in the kitchen he shouts "MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" like his pants are on fire and I asked who wants a bucket of water.

Then we had cello practice. Mom was Maestra, since practice with Dad goes something like this:

"Hey, play that one song"
"I don't remember how it starts."
"Me Neither. Wanna read books?"

I applauded their songs, got refreshments, and gave Isaac a time-out when he got mad and tried to commit cellicide by sawing his instrument in half with his bow.

When it was time to go, I collected my hugs and kisses (Isaac on the lips, Jack on the cheek, as always). Jack has just started saying, "I love you too, dad" which is sweet. I walked out of the house wondering when I became "Dad" instead of "Daddy".

Then I went to work. Where I worked. Work used to seem like a break, but now that being at home no longer feels like a cross between bootcamp and chaperoning at Animal House, work is back to being workish.

I had an event that ran late, so I got home after the boys were asleep. I went into the bedroom, where they were both sprawled on their beds like lusty pirates after a long day of pillaging, taking up far more bed-space than they did a year ago, or even six months ago.

I crouched down next to their beds, breathing in the smell of sleepy little-boy breath, and wept.



Back in the bootcamp days...

Left Coast Randomness

My dear friend Shumit is a stay at home dad out in Cali with a sharp eye for the humorous side of the body-fluid soaked bacchanal that is parenting. Shu and I have a long history together, including some mischief that should by rights prohibit us from ever being in charge of any other human being, no matter how small. But nature has blessed us with fine swimmers and physiques that at least two women in the world do not find repellent, and so we find ourselves raising our own little progeny on opposite sides of the country, and blogging about poop, vomit, and sleep deprivation. I always enjoy reading his posts. He's the type of guy that can put the "fun" in "funeral". One of my favorites is linked here

#85

So I've been neglecting my blog of late. I blame it on my kids. They're just not as funny as they used to be. I try walking up to them and shouting "SAY SOMETHING FUNNY!" but they just reply with relatively well-reasoned logic appropriate to their level of development. But recently, they have begun to be funny On Purpose.

Jack told his first joke at age 17 months or so (my wife will no doubt correct the actual age. She has a mother's head for those details), but he was still in diapers. Rebecca had unfastened one of those diapers, peeked inside, and said to Jack, "Hey, there's a penis in there!" To which Jack replied, "What's a penis doing there?"

It was a long dry spell for on-purpose humor for a while, but the other day, Jack responded to one of his brother's non-sensical 4-year-old questions with:

"BAWK, BAWK! Midnight Chicken!"

I have no idea who or what the "Midnight Chicken" is, but the funniest part about it is the fact that Jack sounds as though he is answering the phone at a call center.

Since then, it has become the go-to phrase for any question that is not really worth answering.:

"Hey Jack, how's that hot-dog, man?"

"Bawk, bawk. Midnight Chicken!"

I mean, how do you answer that?

Picasso said once, "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."

To my eldest son: Here's hoping that you never lose the appreciation of the absurd. That at any point in your life, if circumstance warrants it, you can pick up that ringing phone, and take an order for the Midnight Chicken.

#84

A very close friend of mine just had her first baby this week. What I want to say is, "You're gonna be SO GREAT at this!" What I should say is, "You're gonna kind of suck at this, but it's OK, because we all do."

I was having a conversation with a (childless)colleague the other day, and he mentioned (with disdain) that some celebrity (who I know nothing about because I have kids) HIDES her children's vegetables in foods they like by chopping them up small, or pureeing them.

Apparently,this is WRONG.

I was taking notes and pulling out my iPhone to cruise Amazon for food processors.

OK.

Jack eats about 5 different foods, all of them beige. i comfort myself with the reminder that they are organically beige. I figure I can either let him eat his beige slop until he gets over it, or deal with the barf. Jack is a barfer. Nothing ends an argument about "trying new things" quicker than a nice warm puddle of sick.

Isaac has no such qualms. The other day he requested: smoked salmon, pickles, and olive paste on flatbread. Standard fare for old Jewish men. Isaac is adventurous, lusty, and daring. But he has his preferences.

There is one culinary rule in Chez Norman-Sokoll: Broccoli. Thou Shalt Eat Broccoli. Not either kids favorite, but they will both eat it without barfing. Yesterday for dinner I chose carrots (the only other non-beige item Jack will ingest, albeit grudgingly). Isaac remarked, "We're not having Broccoli??!! My favorite??!!"
Thinking we had reached the promised land of vegetable appreciation, I scooped Isaac up and said, "Broccoli is your favorite, huh?"


"No dad. Not having Broccoli. That's my favorite."



Jack enjoying some beige...