Just For Fun

Because sometimes, we need that.

When the older boys were wee ones, there were certain things we could not mention in their hearing. This went beyond Christmas gifts and various hallucinogenic holiday characters. A mere mention of the name,"Bob the Builder" would send the boys into fits of excitement, insisting that they must return home right that instant to watch Bob. That was exhausting. So, we took to calling him "Robert the Construction Worker".

This little slight-of-tongue worked so well that we expanded our code to include other things.

"Playgroup" became "frolick collective", "ice cream" might be "frozen bovine excretion" (hah - like they'd ever have figured that one out!) For years, Zorak and I have been able to create our own cryptic dialogue for just about anything, without fear of discovery. Now that the older two are, well, older, they're catching on. And they're pretty good at it.

For instance, Smidge wants to go to Chuck E. Cheese for his birthday. (Granted, I'd much rather let a street vendor in Juarez perform liposuction on my butt than spend the day there, but you know I'll go.) The real question was when we'd go, my main criteria being that Zorak has to go with us, since he's the one who introduced the vile place to the children, to begin with. At supper tonight, I asked Zorak if we should hit the "Italian Rodent's Lair" on Saturday. He processed the request, and replied in the affirmative. That was about the time James burst out laughing. He then said, "Oh, do you mean...

...and he made a wretching motion, a surprized motion, and shouted
"Mozzarella!"

I just about died laughing. It wasn't subtle, but it was good. Our code has been broken, and none of our secrets are safe. But it's worth it to have let him in on the game. This is what allows me to enjoy them well beyond the fuzzy infant, the insane toddler, the funny preschooler ages. We're raising adults, and from the looks of it, we're raising pretty good-natured ones, to boot.

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This is Smidge's Pear. He smelled the blossom. He watched it die back. He squealed and giggled and leapt up and down as the fruit began to form beneath the remains of the flower. This one was his. And he managed to not pick it, not pester it to death, not lose it to deer or siblings or foul winds. All. Season. Long. Sweet, sweet reward. **************************************************************

And this is John's latest find. Looks an awful lot like a chicken head, doesn't it? Complete with one buggy eye, and everything. He was quite proud, and wanted a picture before he ate it. (I have never been so tempted to call the National Enquirer, in my life, but John really didn't want to wait to hear back from them.) He found another one in the same batch that looked, as he put it, "More like a goose than a chicken. A really small goose."

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Yes, this is how we spend our days sometimes. Laughing at inside jokes, taking pictures of weird foodstuffs, and enjoying everything we've put into all of it. Good stuff, indeed.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy