Pour some sugar on me

The other day I noticed the Elder Boy digging at his crotch. This is usually a sign that he needs to urinate. "Boy," I said, "Do you need to go urinate?" Nothing. He gave me a look, and kept right on digging at his crotch. "E..." I repeated, a bit more forcefully, "do you need to go pee?" An annoyed "NO!" is what I got. I decided to forget it. He nearly never has an accident anymore, and is even ok to sleep freestyle (read: sans diaper.) I figured, he'd know if he needed to pee.

Fast forward to bath time (which is actual shower time these days.) I decided to use the occasion to inspect his genitalia to see what was going on down there. After a somewhat tense inspection I noted that the Boy was a bit raw, that he had something going on, and that it actually looked like jock itch. I was stumped. Do prepubescent boys even get jock itch? I wasn't sure about that, what I was sure of, how to doctor the area. Powder.

So, after our shower, I told the Boy, " Boy, we need to doctor your crotch." I don't think he actually knew what 'his crotch' was, still he wanted no part of it being doctored. "NO!" He said, "I don't want my crock doctored...I want to watch Cartoon Network...I want Wyatt to go to bed." You see Dear Reader, at the time, Wyatt was on our bed watching Diego (Dora's animal saving cousin) on cable, with My Lovely Bride, who was more interested in watching the floor show that was me and E discussing doctoring his crotch.

I decided to try and reason with the Boy, "Ethan," I said, "its almost night time for Wy Wy. Let him watch the end of Diego. Why don't you let me doctor your crotch. It will make it feel better. I can put powder on it."

Powder got him. I don't know if he actually knew what powder was, but he was intrigued enough to let me go grab the container, and begin my attempt to doctor his crotch. "Ethan," I explained, "I need you to lay on your back on the bed and pull down your pants so I can apply the powder to the area." No go. He wanted none of that, "I'll do it..." is what he told me.

Fearing what sort of doctoring the Boy would do to himself with a full bottle of baby powder in our room, I opted for a compromise. "Boy," I said, "You can doctor yourself, but I'm going hang onto the powder bottle. I'll put the powder in your hand. Then you rub it on your crotch," as I mimed rubbing powder onto my own crotch, "like this."

Back on the bed, Wy still watched Diego oblivious to floor show in front of the bed. Cart, she was hooked, as she watched Ethan gingerly pulling down his pants as he held out his right hand. I responded by carefully pouring a fair amount of powder into the palm of said hand. That's when it happened. The Boy looked at the powder, and then me, and back at the powder, and then, with the biggest grin he said, I shit you not, "IS IT SUGAR...?" as his hand slowly started moving toward his mouth.

"NO!" I said, "It is not sugar. It is powder, put it on your crotch!"

Thinking back, I'm not sure what was more disturbing. The fact that the Elder Boy is such a sugar junkie that he would have actually eaten baby powder. Or, that he thought I was such father of the year material, that I would have had him rub sugar all over his crock!

Until I BLOG again...I'm hot, sticky sweet

Dino-Mite!

The Elder Boy will be 4 tomorrow. If you are playing along at home, 7:23 AM to be exact. As you can imagine, he's super excited about his Birthday and party which will have a dinosaur theme this year. A few weeks in the rearview, at dinner, we were talking about his party and I figured I'd give him an early Birthday present in the form of a bad stock joke. "E", I said, "When you invite your friends to your Dinosaur Birthday Party, or talk about the party, be sure and tell them that it is going be dino-mite!" The Boy just looked at me and kept on eating.

Fast forward to yesterday, Ethan and I went to the mingo store to get a candy treat. As we entered the 7-Eleven, a nice older gentleman who appeared to be a Vietnamese immigrant gave us a warm greeting. We both said, Hello, and walked over to the candy aisle. A few moments later, the man manning the store, came down the aisle, and sort of inserted himself between us (which freaked me out) and reached down and grabbed a pack of sour patch kid candy and held the candy out for Ethan to take. Ethan was a bit freaked out as well, and looked at me for support, which I gave by nodding. My first impulse was that this old guy was simply being friendly. He probably had kids, or grandkids and maybe they weren't around the Messoplex and this guy missed them, or something. Thats what was running through my monkey brain, when out popped a darker thought! This guy was a pervert, and being Asian, and new to the US, in my head at least, he could have the bird flu. No shit. I thought that, and just one day shy of the MLK Holiday too. We shall overcome my ass, I suck!

Back in the real world, this guy was in the candy aisle stoopped over to be at E's level, as he handed Ethan the candy and said, in his broken English, "These candy good candy. Sweet and...(I guess he didn't know sour in English so he scrunched up his face to mime sour) Me like. Me think you like. Yum yum." Then, instead of raising back up to his full height, he sort of held the position and was looking right at Ethan. This freaked me out real hard. I was about to pick up the Elder Boy and dust our collective ass out of the candy aisle of that 7-Eleven and away from this Vietnamese Michael Jackson when Ethan simply said, "Thank you." Tran (he had a name tag) raised up to his full height and looked at me and back down at Ethan, and gave us the most beatific smile. It was amazing actually. Instantly my fear of the other passed. I no longer saw this old guy who looked different from us. Who had bad teeth and talked funny and possible had the bird flu. No. He was just this nice guy who was being sweet to my Elder Boy.

Ethan, who was hip to all this way before me, was busy talking to Tran about his second candy choice, when Tran said to me, "Old is he...?" And held up his right hand with all four fingers and thumb up, to imply 5..."He this many?" I smiled. "No, he's this many..." and held up my right hand and showed him four fingers and said..."Almost actually, He'll be 4 on Tuesday." Tran smiled that amazing smile, and said to Ethan, "Party? BIG party...yes?" and extended his hand so he could give Ethan a celebratory Birthday hand shake. E didn't miss a beat, as he took Tran's hand, and the two of them stood in the candy aisle at 7-Eleven and shook hands. Still shaking, Tran said, "Happy Birthday." Ethan replied, "Thank you." Thought a moment and added, "I'm going to have a Dinosaur party...it's going to be dino-mite!

Until I BLOG again...Happy Birthday Boy!

Pop!

One of the Boy(s) favorite things to do is to go to the 'mingo' store (Ethan's curious name for a convenience store.) $3 buckaroos can buy happiness in the form of strawberry pop and a simple piece of candy. Wy Wy goes for chocolate (like me, he digs Mr. Goodbar.) Ethan usually goes for an elaborate piece of candy, that has more than one part. He's intrigued as much by the packaging as the sweetness inside.

Perhaps I'm delusional, but I truly believe that the Boy(s) get more enjoyment out of a trip to the 'mingo' store than they did, or do, with all the booty they got for Christmas. Sure, if you asked them, if they had a choice between the Thomas and Bertie's Race train track or DinoAdventure (their favorite gifts) or going to get a strawberry pop at the 'mingo' store with Dad, they'd probably choose, what appears to be the bigger prize. At least in the here and now. But, in that distant, somewhat scary, who knows what is going to happen, Buck Rogers future, what will they pick? What will they remember?

One of my fondest, most cherished memories was sitting on my Mom's lap, her chewing gum and blowing bubbles for me to pop. This memory is so shrouded in the past, I'm unclear on which parts are actually real, and what parts I've fabricated. I know that I was very young at the time, actually, not much older than Ethan is now. I know this based on the place (the old house on Garfield Street) and the circumstances (Dad not being around at night, because he was still working shift work at the steel mill.) Yet, through the haze of time I can still see the two of us, me and my Mom, in that ugly La-Z-boy chair. Her blowing bubble after bubble for me to pop. I can hear my laugh. See her smile. The two of us sharing such a sweet, tender moment. A moment that encapsulates all that Mom was and is, to me.

Memories are funny. The fact that I remember that one over all the other wonderful things about my Mom. Still, it is the one that most often comes back to me, the one I remember nearly everytime I hear my Boy(s) laugh, when we do something silly, or simple, like going to the damn 'mingo' store.

Until I BLOG again...FUCK cancer!

It feels mighty good to me

I worry. A lot. Stupid shit. Not so stupid shit. Real. Fantasy. Worry. Worry. Worry. That's me. One of my top of the pops worry though, is that we (we being me and my Lovely Bride) are messing up our Boy(s.) I read somewhere, that having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist. Amen to that, which is how I felt over our holiday break when Ethan would get so pissed off at Wyatt that he'd hit him in the head with a hot wheel car, or some other bad behavior. Or when Wyatt got so out of hand that we had to actually leave Church. I thought, damn Stu, what are we doing to these Boy(s)...we suck. Call CPS.

This sort of defeatist thought would generally well up after a particularly long day with the Boy(s). The next day, things would look brighter, until Wyatt went ape shit because we didn't understand that he wanted to watch Toy Story 2 on DVD vs. Toy Trains on VHS. Or Ethan had an absolute break-down because his Mom straightened up his room and changed the sheets on his bed.

Then, one day, an old bird dies. The bird belonged to one of Cart's oldest and dearest friends, who's daughter is E's best gal pal. There was a play date set for that afternoon at Planet Pizza or Pizza Planet (I can never get that straight...one is in Toy Story, the other in Plano) and Cart's friend called to tell Cart about the bird, and to let her know in case her daughter mentioned it, so she'd be prepared, etc. Cart went on to tell Ethan about the death of the bird so he'd be prepared if his friend talked about it. He knew the bird, having seen it on many visits at their home. I think he was actually sort of freaked out by the bird, but, my point, Cart told him about the bird that one time.

Fast forward an hour or so, and everyone has rolled up to Planet Pizza/Pizza Planet. Upon seeing his friend, Ethan walked over to her, and said, "Auburn, (which is actually Autumn, but he has, and probably always will, call her Auburn) I'm sorry your bird died." He then gave her a hug. Autumn, who turned 4 in October hugged back, and then replied, "Thank you Ethan. That makes me feel better."

It made me feel better too...at least until he took another toy car and whacked his brother in the head again.

Until I BLOG again...Did you hit your brother???

My bucket's got a hole in it

On December 28, Wy Wy turned two years old. No surprise, being the Little Warrior, Wyatt is terribly two, too. I mean this in a loving, good way, but the Boy is nuts. At times, being with him is like hanging out with a miniature drunk. Happy one moment, bitterly angry the next. He keeps the entire Team on our toes. Dig this.

The other morning, Ethan was enjoying some hot chocolate. Wy Wy, seeing that his Big Brother had hot chocolate, wanted some too. Ethan is old enough, and has earned the right to drink his hot chocolate out of a proper coffee mug. This allows us to put marshmallows in it which both Boy(s) probably like more than the actual hot chocolate. If Wy Wy gets hot chocolate it has to be in a sippy cup, which has a lid on it so it won't spill. Thus, even if we include marshmallows in his hot chocolate, Wyatt can't see them, and thinks he's getting the short end of the stick.

All of the above had went down this past week, as I stood in the kitchen trying to make myself a cup of green tea after delivering the Boy(s) their hot chocolates. I was standing at the stove, with a hot kettle in my hand, when Wy came stumbling into the kitchen, looking like a crazy drunk. He had his sippy cup in his right hand, dangling, and was sort of pointing at me with his other hand. All the while, with that infernal plug in his mouth, he was ranting at me about the marshmallow situation. I should note here that Wy Wy has a lot of words for his age, however you can't always understand what they are, because he's either sucking on that infernal plug which screws up his pronunciation or he simply says a word like a two year old. To the point, Wyatt can be hard to understand, and interpreting what he is saying is sort of like playing charades, all about the context and his gestures. If you are slow to get what he is saying, he is likely to go into full-on warrior mode.

So there I am, a hot tea kettle in my hand, as I tried to pour hot water into a cup, when this surly little cat stumbled into me, dropping his sippy cup, and jabbing me in the leg to get my attention. The jabbing quickly progressed to tugging at my leg, which ended up with my pajama bottoms being pulled down below my waist. Since I'm going commando, I'm now standing in the kitchen, with my bare ass and penis exposed, hot tea kettle in one hand, being accosted by a mad two year old.

Setting the tea kettle back onto the stove, and trying to pull my pants up, Wyatt screamed, "UCKET IT ELLOWS!" I suck at charades, so I'm confused, but I am being father of the year calm, so I replied, "Excuses me?"
The calm tone of voice had little effect on Wy who roared, "UCKET ELLOWS!!! UCKET ELLOWS!!!!" Growing more agitated, but still trying to rise above it all, I said, "Take the plug out of your mouth Wy Wy." Being like a crack addict with that infernal plug, this made Wy go from 10 to 11 and he started ranting..."UCKET ELLOWS, UCKET ELLOWS, UCKET ELLOWS, UCKET ELLOWS!!!!!!" Calmly, I repeated, "Wyatt, please take the plug out of your mouth so I can understand what you want."

At this point, and even though it is hard to believe, Wyatt got even more mad, and screamed, "UCKET...(and which point he pulled the plug out of his mouth, holding it like a cigar and continued) ARSHMELLOWS!!!!!!!!!! (he then promptly shoved the plug back into his mouth)" Bingo, I can solve the puzzle...and I don't even need to buy a vowel. But, to make sure, I asked, "You want a bowl (Wy Wy calls a bowl a bucket) of marshmallows?"

Going from 60 to 0, and looking spent, Wy Wy gave me a vigorous nod...and then to make sure we're on the same page, pulled the plug out of his mouth and said, "YEAH."

I grabbed a bowl, and gave him some marshmallows. He took them, again removing the plug, as he shoved a handful into his mouth. He then looked up at me, giving me the biggest, sweetest moon pie esque (because of the marshmallows) smile and said, "Tank-You Dad-e" as he turned and exited the kitchen.

Until I BLOG again...Happy Birthday Wy Wy.