Tuesday, July 16, 2013
English is a crap language for kids to have to learn. It makes no sense it so many ways. But it also makes for some entertaining discussions. Take possessive pronouns, for example. Hilarity can easily ensue.
This all started with an innocent discussion at the lunch table:
“Daddy, eat your sandwich.”
“I already ate my sandwich, Bub. You eat your sandwich now.”
“Daddy, wanna eat your sandwich?”
“Mine’e gone, Bub. Do you see my sandwich?”
“Daddy wanna share your sandwich?”
Oh, I get it now. He doesn’t know the word ‘my,’ so he’s using ‘your in its place. And I thought he was just slow…
“You mean YOUR sandwich?”
“Yes, your sandwich.”
Well, that didn’t help. Damn English.
“No, you say MY sandwich, Bub.”
“Say ‘You wanna share my sandwich?’”
“You wanna share my sandwich, Daddy?”
“Nah, not hungry. Already ate my sandwich.”
When you don’t clarify, you can find yourself in situations not unlike this one:
“Where’d your privates go?”
He was trying to bait me into another fun-filled game of pre-bath private peekaboo. Oddly, I wasn’t in the mood. But this did make for a concrete, if awkward, teaching moment.
“Well, Bub, MY privates are in MY pants.”
He flashed me.
“Boo! There they are!”
“No, those are YOUR privates.”
“Ohhh, where’d YOUR privates go?”
“I told you, they’re…”
“BOO! There they are!”
Again with the crotch shot.
“No, Bub, listen. YOU say MY privates. Repeat after me. Where did MY privates go?”
“Say it with me. Where did my privates go?”
“Where’d your privates go?”
Getting loud, gesture-y now: “No, Bub, repeat: WHERE DID MYYYYY PRIVATES GO?”
“What are you guys doing in there?” Mommy yelled.
“GRAMMAR!” I screamed over my shoulder, “NOW WHERE DID MY PRIVATES GO?!”
“In your pants, Daddy.”
**This is actually a few months old. He's since gotten much better at differentiating his privates from mine.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Today is Mommy's birthday, and she is really getting the shaft. Not only is she at her second day at her new job (where few people know her name, let alone the day she joined planet Earth), but we just moved the whole familial unit 2400 miles out to sunny Portland. We are living with my very generous brother and wife; though friendly takeover seems more apropos of what we've done here. We've even displaced the poor cat.
Anyway, it does seem to happen that nearly every year in the eleven that we've been together, something is in the way of her birthday. One year we were moving to Vegas, last year she was eight months pregnant and COULD NOT FUCKING EAT SUSHI. Always something. Several were spent traveling, including this one:
It makes them memorable in their own way, but not necessarily they way she may want. Birthdays should be relaxing, mellow. All spritzers and neck massages. Not a stress-cloud of uncertainty hanging over us, raining applications and credit checks and references all over our parade. Me going to the DMV instead of the ice cream cake store. WTF? And, yes, I did schedule a quick apartment viewing for right after we pick her up from work. Oh yes he did.
But one thing I know she always wanted was a blog post. This is that post.
So happy birthday to you, my beautiful, stunning, strong, independent, feisty, occasionally backseat-driving wife. You are the only one for me. You keep me righted and call me on my shit. You lift me up, even though I'm clearly much heavier than you. You're a wonderful, natural mother to our kids. You even taught one how to tongue. You are tireless and stubborn and I love that. And you pull it all off with that effortless grace I fell in love with so long ago. I could go on and on, but naptime is almost over.
In short, you are the water that dilutes my juice in this sippy cup called life. Or maybe it's the other way around. The point is we mix for a mean cocktail, you and me. This is a brand new chapter in our rich narrative together, and like anything worthwhile, it's scary as hell. But let's go kick this town in the teeth, what do you say? Here's to you, baby. Happy birthday.