Monthly Archives: August 2010

My sister enjoys telling a story about this one moment I shared with all of my siblings while cruising with the family in the Caribbean.  I was bunking with my two brothers.  Both of them are quite younger than I, so I suppose the logic was that I was more responsible and would keep tabs on the two rapscallions.  Or maybe my father just wanted to torture me for a week.  Either way.

In any case, for some reason my sister was going about video taping us getting ready for the formal dinner.  If you’ve never been on a cruise, there’s at least one evening when you have to dress up.  Hopefully it’s at the beginning of the cruise so that your pants still fit.  She walked over to our cabin to interview us.  I was standing just outside the door, explaining that we were all getting ready and that we were all very excited and blah blah blah.  I don’t really recall this conversation, so I’m going to have to take her word for what happened next.  I was in the middle of a sentence when I pause, look back over my shoulder into the cabin where my brothers are getting ready.  In perfect unintentional deadpan I call out to my brothers, “Well then if it’s not your underwear, don’t put it on.”

It’s one of those moments where you say something that you don’t really imagine saying ever again.

Until today.  Today my wife and I were in the kitchen, preparing dinner.  The youngest was safely in her high chair.  The eldest was sitting on the little portable potty in the middle of our living room.  (With toddlers, the mood will strike when it strikes and you had damn well better have a potty close at hand)

I was talking to my wife when all of the sudden I pause, listen for a moment, and call out, “Sweetheart?   Are you putting on your pants?”

My wife nearly had to use the potty herself, she was laughing so hard.

Maybe you had to be there.  Or maybe it’s better that you weren’t.

We’ve been using my daughter’s dollhouse as an incentive to pursue potty training.  Each seven day period that she goes without making a mess in her diapers earns her a trip to the toy store to buy something new for her house.  Each accident that she has during the week moves some of her furnishings to the fireplace mantle, in view but out of reach until she finishes a full day without accidents.

Judging by the number of toys on our mantle, we’ve had a very bad few days.

So my in-laws celebrate each and every birthday in the family with a vengeance.    It doesn’t matter if you’re not a blood relation.  It doesn’t matter if you’d prefer a small quiet dinner.  It doesn’t matter if you’d rather ignore the day.  It doesn’t matter if you’d rather spend the day crying into a good stiff drink as your youth and vigor are sucked away by the inevitable forces of Entropy.  You will celebrate.  You will have a nice dinner with all available family members.  And you will…have…CAKE.

But that’s not the point of this, my second straight post in a row.

My wife asked me what I’d like to do today for my birthday celebration.  After hearing my response she paused, took a breath, and repeated the question.   The second time I gave an acceptable response.  Rather than go to the zoo for the umpteenth time, I decided to go to the Wisconsin State Fair.

I’ve been to the local county fair a number of times.   It’s a lot of fun, really.  I like wandering around and talking to the vendors.  So I figured…what the hey?  Let’s try the State Fair.  And I enjoyed myself.  I am vaguely concerned about the overall combustibility of the complex.  The fair grounds are quite large.  If I had to guess, I’d venture  that at least 70% of the booths I saw contained some kind of cooking oil used to deep fry things that should really NOT be deep fried.  The remaining area contained hay, manure, and hand made clothing made of wool.

One match would convince our government that a small cabal of terrorists dedicated to healthy living and the destruction of trans fats had secured a small nuclear weapon and had detonated it at the nexus of all that’s fried and delicious.  The explosion would be that large.

Deep fried cheese steak, people.  That’s all I’m saying.

If only they had had chocolate covered beef bacon rather than just the regular pork version.

“Why don’t you post any more?” my wife said to me…repeatedly.

Honestly, I’m not entirely sure.  The desire to write up stories and tidbits for consumption by an audience that consists mostly of my wife and my mother has faded over the past few years.   Whenever someone (my wife) asks me that, I’m tempted to just respond:  ”Why don’t you just ask me to tell you a story now?   You’re the only one who will read it.”

Of course, marital stability demands that I occasionally accede to my wife’s requests.

“We’ve got two lovely daughters who are doing funny things all the time!  You should write about them!”

I think to myself, “Twenty years from now, will my daughters really appreciate me posting stories about them pooping, peeing, and babbling in ways that are endearing only if you’re under the age of four?  Especially as I use my real name?”

Of course, then I see my youngest daughter wielding a knife like a baby martial artist.

It was a wooden “knife” that was included in the Melissa & Doug Deluxe Wooden Cutting Fruit Crate.  Completely harmless (unless you poke your eye out).  And yet there’s something about a baby crawling after you with a knife in one hand and a giant grin on her face that gives even rational people like me pause.

So…there you go.