ONE YEAR AGO…
I awoke to a pixie whisper in my ear. “Daddy!” my daughter hissed. “I fink da Easter Bunny came!”
“He did?” I yawned. “Well, I guess we’d better go wake up your brother and see what he left you. Do you want to?”
“Yes!” she hissed. “Yes, Daddy! I do!”
“Shh!” On the other side of the bed, my wife did a half-kick as she insisted, “Wait. I need five minutes. My stomach’s killing me.”
I plodded alongside my skipping daughter across our one-story rental house’s living room (past the two baskets expertly hidden by the Easter Bunny) and into my son’s room to begin the twenty-minute process of waking him from a sound sleep.
Aside from it being Easter Morning, 2014, this was pretty much business as usual–my daughter being the first one awake, my wife wanting “five more minutes,” and my son seconding his mother’s sentiments by demanding the remainder of the day to sleep, as he had already “telled me firty-seven times” to “stop talking to me. I don’t want to do nuffing!”
Sure, my world was pretty nuts, but things were also looking up. With the Twins in a school we’d grown quite fond of and my doctoral coursework in the bag, I had just taken a job I was fairly happy with–one requiring me to wear a tie and commute 45 minutes to downtown Phoenix. While I was not particularly a fan of the obscene amount of time I was spending ironing, attempting to color-coordinate shirt-tie-pants-socks-shoes combos, and coming to a complete stop on the freeway, I was very much a fan of the sudden influx of real, actual grown-ass man income I was earning after slumming it as a student worker for years.
This was also about the point when I had about 30 pages of my dissertation written, and was just starting to kick my own ass every frickin’ night once the Twins went to bed with ice-cream-and-beer-fueled “THIS!IS!SPARTA!” thesis-writing binges usually lasting until about two in the morning. Although the topic of my wife and me having more kids would occasionally come up from time to time, it was primarily as a ridiculously funny joke, as several medical professionals had deemed our reproductive organs to be barren wastelands of fossilized sperm with no tails and one of those egg cartons everyone leaves on the grocery store shelf because it got dropped by that guy who wasn’t paying attention while he was checking the expiration date because he was obnoxiously talking on his cell phone about his entire life story for everyone in the store to hear. These, of course, are highly technical medical terms.
“…and who’s this, Buddy?”
“R2D2 is his friend. They go in space togedder.”
For his bedtime “story,” my son had chosen his copy of Star Wars: The Visual Dictionary, and so I sat with him on his bed, elated and proud to be discussing A Galaxy Far, Far Away with my four-year-old. Last year, I figured there was no better opportunity than Star Wars Day (May the Fourth), for the Twins’ inaugural viewing of Episode IV, and since then, they’ve been enamored with droids, Light Sabers, and “Deaf” Stars. As we turned the page, my son instantly recognized the next character. “Dat’s Princess Leia.”
He took in the two-page profile on Leia, which includes photos of her in the various costumes she wears throughout the trilogy. Then, after a moment of careful consideration, he cracked a goofy grin and pointed to the one of her as Jabba the Hutt’s scantily clad prisoner.
“I like THAT one the best,” he smiled.
I braced myself. “How come, Buddy?” Continue reading
My mother was at our house the other day playing with my son, who was squashing every imaginative contribution Grandma made to the story they were acting out with the Twins’ new Bubble Guppies playset (which–by the way–she had just brought over for their birthday).
Quite frankly, he was being kind of a punk.
Which resulted in the following interaction:
My Mom: Who made you the boss?
My Son: I’m not. I’m just acting like Mommy.
My son may be bossy, but he knows where he stands.
His observation is further evidenced by the following actual mug belonging to my wife:
1. Opening a Bottle of Beer
2. Pouring a Bottle of Beer into a Darth Vader Pint Glass in such a way as to Minimize Foam
3. Drinking a Beer out of a Darth Vader Pint Glass
4. Taking a Picture of a Beer in a Darth Vader Pint Glass
5. Compiling a Non-Exhaustive List