The Rat

"Don't worry, HP, I only told them EVERYTHING."

 

I think it’s time to introduce Bub to the genre of gangster films. Because he is currently headed down a one-way street to fish-sleeping with his utter and holistic lack of loyalty. Note example A:

“Daddy, HP tried to escape diaper change,” Bub said. It was first thing in the morning, apropos of nothing. All I did was walk in the room, looking for coffee. Wrong room.

“Wow, you mean to tell me that Mommy changed HP’s diaper and HP tried to roll away?”

“Yes.”

“Well, holy moly, did you notify the authorities? She could be anywhere!”

“There she is, Daddy.” Of course she was. Because she’s immobile. And also, Bub, who cares?

“Well, we can close the books on that one. She can’t really get far, can she?”

“HP a rolling-over ma-CHINE!”

“Yes yes, but why are you telling me she tried to escape?”

“…”

“You know, you could have covered for her, Bub, instead of throwing her under the bus,” I said, shaking my head. “You fucking rat.”

“What’s a rat, Daddy?”

“Well, Bub, a rat is a filthy piece of vermin that spreads entrusted secrets around like the bubonic plague, betrays all its friends, and cowers in sewers, feasting on feces.”

“Oooooooh, that sounds GOOOOOD!”

And then there’s the time he ratted his own Bubbe out. Yeah. His own beloved, fawning, IPad-owning, Dum Dum-purveying Bubbe. We walked in after a babysitting session, and Mommy says to Bubbe:

“Mom, why is your mouth blue? Oh my God, are you OKAY??”

“Um, yeah. Why?”

End of conversation. Thought nothing of it. Perhaps a circulation problem. Then we asked Bub what he did with Bubbe. He couldn’t wait to dessimate their relationship.

“We ate DUM DUMS!”

“Oh, Dum Dums, huh? Probably weren’t supposed to tell us that.”

“I ate a red one!”

“Oh, that’s my favorite.”

“And Bubbe have BLUE one!”

“Real nice, Bub. Didn’t even ask about Bubbe. You fucking rat.”

The Hand

Don't I look just like that chick chained to Jabba's bed?

The other day, I put Bub down for his nap and went to the living room to work. He talked and sang to himself for a good while; not unusual. I thought I heard a few bangs and knocks coming from that direction, but it was storming, branches were blowing, etc. Whatever, it’s not like he could get out of his wide open big boy bed on his own.

Maybe forty minutes later, I had to go to the bathroom. The bathroom is right across the hall from the kids' room, which is relevant because there I sat, going about my business, when I happen to look over and see this:

An addition flash card was sucked into the darkness. OH MY GOD, IT’S BOBBY!!! HOLY SHIT, HE’S REAL!!

Because it’s well-known that Bub is not physically capable of breaking through the invisible one-way force field surrounding his big boy bed. Well, it DID, anyway. Even though theoretically we knew this day would come, I was completely stupefied. You’re telling me he had gotten himself untucked, disabled the imaginary force field, just to stick his hand under the door? Why?

So I did the most mature thing I could think of: I got down flat on the floor, ninja style, and peeked under the door.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Right into the ambush. Same feeling I had playing Lazer Tag last week. You know the one, when you’re stealthing around, clinging to walls, shortening your breathing. And then suddenly your chest starts bleeding flashing lights and some 12 year-old who has been watching you the whole time stands there laughing his ass off while you writhe in self-pity.

So I opened the door. And like most kids, I presume, he was just sitting there, playing with his number flashcards. In the dark.

“I made this!” he said.

“What did you make, Bub?” Why was I even asking? We do not negotiate with terrorists.

“I made THIS!” he said, pointing at a mess of flashcards. “Equals. I made TWO equals.”

“Wow, awesome. Say, I can’t help but noticing you’re not in bed during nap time.”

“I’m a-WAKE!”

“Great, well I’ve got a new problem for you. Are you ready? 5 plus 2 equals GET YOUR ASS BACK IN BED!”

It happened a couple more times that week, then he started staying in bed. I guess he tired of his little game. Either that, or stepping on the booby traps I laid around the room. Six in one, half dozen the other.

Pizzeria Bubalina

Every artist has his method. Though unorthodox, Bub has honed a definitive style of making pies. It is unique, it is a secret, and I am here to sell out that secret. This is straight from his personal cookbook:

Pizza

Serving size: Some for everybody

Materials: Big purple bowl (must be purple). That’s it.

Ingredients: Pickling spice, chili powder, celery salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, seasoned salt, coriander, caraway, empty oregano jar that may or may not contain a Matchbox car (optional).

Directions:

1.       Be sure to leave ALL of the caps on the spices. Or Daddy will get mad. Except for the empty oregano. This you can open, just be careful not to spill your Matchbox.

2.       Also, we do not lick the chili powder. It is very spicy. You can smell them, though.

3.       Shake each spice into the bowl, one at a time. It really doesn’t matter how much you add. VERY IMPORTANT: Be sure to sing while you do this. I recommend ABCs, if you are familiar.

4.       Now line up your spices in a semi-circle formation.

5.       Next, count your spices. You should always have 27.

6.       Finally, enjoy your pizza. Make sure Bankie gets a piece. It is soooooo good!

Mix Tape

Milk, milk, milk, milk, milk, milk...thank you, good night!

Bub’s taste in music is nothing if not eclectic, a unique hybrid of children’s classics and whatever happens to pop into Daddy’s brain that captures his fancy. I had the pleasure of discussing it with him today at lunch:

Me: So Bub, what’s your FAVORITE song these days?

Bub: Hello, Everybody.

Me: Oh, from music class? Nice choice. What’s your second favorite?

Bub: ABCs.

Me: Classic. How about third?

Bub: Um, Twinkle, Twinkle.

Me: Yep, those two we sing every night before bed. But what’s number four?

Bub: Um...uh…um…Oh, Daddy’s writing NUMBERS!

Me: That’s right, I’m recording your top ten. Just like Casey Kasem. So what’s number four?

Bub: Um…uh…um…uh…um…uhhhh…ummmmmmm….aahhhhh….ummmmmmmmm…Alejandro!

Me: A little Gaga, sure.

 

And so on. So, rounding out the top ten were:

1.       She Sells Sea Shells (Traditional)

2.       Hush (Deep Purple)

3.       Only the Young (Brandon Flowers)

4.       Yon Yonson (Traditional)

5.       Diamonds (Rihanna)

6.       Choppin’ Broccoli (Dana Carvey)

Missing the cut, but honorable mentions are:

Uh Oh Falling in Love (Gloria Estefan)

Manamana (from The Muppets)

Paradise (Coldplay)

My Buttons (Storytime song)

Anything by the Black Keys

Meet Bobby

Bub Froman, the sausage king of Chicago

So either Bub has begun making imaginary friends or we have a friendly ghost that only speaks to him. Yeah, just like that horror movie. I guess I'm marginally partial to the former.

Oh, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. At first, we thought he was saying ‘Bubbe!’ Makes sense, he has a Bubbe. He sees quite a bit of her. He was quick to clear that one up at one family dinner.

“Bubbe? Are you saying Bubbe?”

“Um, nope.” Long pause, then he looks out to the sun porch and yells: “BOBBY!”

“Bobby? Who is Bobby, Bub?”

Coy little smile. Ohhhh, he is just looking at his reflection in the glass door. Got it.

“Is Bobby about yay tall, sitting in a high chair, with blueberry stains on his chin?”

“Um, nope.”

“Okay, what does he look like, then?”

He casually shovels some yogurt onto his pasta wheels. Says doodley-squat. Like I was The Man, trying to get him to squeal on his low-life buddy. Denying him his phone call, threatening the rubber hose. Okay, fine, I could play detective.

“So he’s on the sun porch, huh?”

“Nope.”

“But you just looked right out there and yelled to him.”

Coy little smile again. Like I was boring him with my amateur theories. Go ahead and look, PIG. Okay, fine, I try a new tack. I fling open the door to the sun porch. No reaction.

“Oh, THERE he is! Hi Bobby, how’s it going? Aren’t you cold out here, little buddy? You want to—“

“BOBBY! BOBBY!” Bub starts yelling down the hallway, opposite direction.

“Alright, YOU KNOW WHAT? FUCK BOBBY, BUB! FUCK HIM AND THE DONKEY HE RODE IN ON! FUCKING BOBBY CAN TAKE A FLYING FUCK AT THE MOOOOOOOOOON!”

Okay, I didn’t say that. I said ‘horse.’ Who fucks donkeys anymore, seriously?

No no, I just stopped talking. Took the high road. Then I thought, for just a moment, the sensitive little Bubster could sense my despondence; he looked concerned.

“Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”

“Yes, Bub?”

“Um…where’s Bobby?” Not concerned, not sensitive. Big, shit-eating grin. Totally messing with me. “Where’s Bobby, Daddy? Daddy, where’s Bobby?”

And so on. Anyway, this is what we know about Bobby so far:

1.      He is invisible, at least to the untrained eye.

2.       He possesses formidable powers of teleportation.

3.       ‘He’ could be a ‘she.’ Bub gets confused with gender pronouns. I don’t know where she gets that from.

4.       He hides. Which is kind of redundant if you’re already invisible, stupid-head.

If encountered, best to terminate with extreme prejudice. And tell him it was from Daddy. If I don’t find him first.