Thought for the Day, Vol. 2

If Jesus saves, are hoarders doing the Lord's work?

Stuff I Never Thought I Would Say, Vol. 9

"Don't eat the crayon.  I mean, lick the salsa off, but don't eat the crayon."

Stuff I Never Thought I Would Say, Vol. 8

You're naked and muddy.  Get out my closet.

Stuff I Never Thought I Would Say, Vol. 7

I don't think you have enough body weight to decapitate a zombie with your bike. 

Detective Story

One of the roles I like most about parenting (in addition to librarian, historian, and archeologist) is that of detective.  I can walk into a room and piece together events that have transpired from clues and prior knowledge of the parties involved.  Fan blade completely sheared from the fan in the guest room?  My money is that it can't support 30 pounds of dead weight, the rough equivalent weight of the same kid who used to scale his window blinds like they were a ladder, albeit the worst ladder ever constructed.   "Anna Pearson Anna Pearson Anna Pearson" written over and over on the window blinds?  Probably the kid that can spell.  Or James.  I could have been way off there.  I enjoy detectiving, and I think of myself as good at it.That just means I am taken aback when I walk into a room and am like, "What...the...fuck?

Tonight, the two younger brothers and I went to Chick Fil A.   It is a great place to kill some time.  The five year old is consistently entertained, and the baby can climb.  All of this in a relatively safe environment.

Five year olds today are not what they used to be.  In my great grandfather's generation, a five year old might walk several miles unattended to spend the day fishing at a creek.  I am pretty comfortable with letting my five year old use the rest room by himself in an uncrowded restaurant.  I am also comfortable leaving him an a sound proofed padded room while I travel 50 feet to the ladies bathroom.  Especially since there are numerous adults around who, with a head nod, will supervise briefly.

I am a fast diaper changer.   I have had three kids.  You get it down to a science.  My typical time, even with a crying squirming baby who would rather sit in his own shit than have it wiped off, is about three minutes.  Three.

At Chick Fil A, I walked into the ladies room with a child playing in the play area.  I walked out three minutes later to the same child walking toward me carrying the biggest fucking ice cream cone I had ever seen.  How the fuck did that happen?

For one, for all his strengths, he doesn't really get the concept of money.  He sees it change hands a lot, but he doesn't get that he has to give money to someone to have them give him something back.   He absolutely did not pay for this iced dairy dream tower he was so busy downing.  The lady at the table who had been keeping an eye on him said that he had wandered around saying "Mommy?  Mommy?" for a second before he walked right up to the counter and asked for ice cream.

Apparently, the teenagers working behind the counter were terrified of his soulless ginger gaze or were just total and complete suckers who randomly hand out ice cream to any ragamuffin who crosses their path (also not ruling out the Jedi mind trick).  They may have taken his "Mommy?" as distress that needed to be calmed before it overcame the rest of the customers.   In reality, I almost guarantee he was just casing the joint to make sure I was nowhere in sight to stop him.

I can't even convince myself to be that mad at him.  In the space of three minutes, he got himself an objective, came up with a plan, and executed it successfully with zero resources at his disposal.  He's the stuff shows like Burn Notice are made of.  I could have a secret operative in training in my very house. 

Stuff James Says, Vol. 2

Did you give the baby sour cream?  Quick!  This is important!

Stuff I Never Thought I Would Say, Vol. 6

"Did you really just hit the toilet with your car?"