Saturday, May 26, 2012

The times they are a blowin'

Despite many, many, many threats, I allowed David to turn six today. In keeping with tradition, he woke up at, imagine that, six o' freakin' clock. My futile attempt to convince David that it wasn't his birthday until noon was jabbed away by Angie with an elbow to my ribs and an equally pleasant request to make coffee. Yes, Master.

Master had been on a mad cleaning frenzy the night before, apparently because we were having guests. This to me is dumber than the phrase 'you always find it in the last place you look'. Well, no shit - I would hope you stop looking for whatever your dumbass lost once you find it. And as far as cleaning up before a horde of messy knee-highs come barreling through the place, I just don't get it. When I was a single sailor, I never said 'oh, the boys are coming over for poker night; I better swab the decks and polish the cutlery'. Hell no; I took the non-crazy approach and said 'Crap! I'm gonna have to clean tomorrow afternoon'. Yes, I wrote 'afternoon'.

Angie's logic and mine have restraining orders on each other that were issued years ago, so I retreated to my beloved 'camera guy' role. I took one (and only one) picture this morning of Angie, delicately balanced on the headboard of our bed on one foot, arms stretched out to the point of tipping over, gripping the end of a vacuum extension tube, trying desperately to murder an innocent family of spiders who had mistakenly thought that the upper corner wall of our bedroom with high ceilings would be a safe neighborhood to raise their baby arachnids.

The 'click' of the camera damn near made Angie topple, which would have certainly resulted in a symphony of clicks played to the backdrop of hysterical laughing. At the last second, Angie impressed me with a spider-monkey-ninja-move that I like to call 'Grab-the-radiator-pipe-with-one-hand-and-shove-the-other-fist-in-your-incredibly-sexy-husband's-face-and-threaten-to-kill-him-until-he-is-dead-if-he-snaps-one-more-picture-or-even-contemplates-using-that-one-for-his-stupid-blog'.

I tried to explain to her that the move was indeed impressive, but that it had a rather long and slightly threatening name and might be more viral if she picked a catchy acronym. She shortened it down considerably, although I could not break out the four-letter acronym that she came up with on the spot. It was catchy, though.

Survival instincts and Angie's sudden and uncontrollable shaking prompted me to work on the coffee 'request' that I had ignored earlier and chalked up to playful pillow talk. As I brewed a pot of black glory, I heard a gleeful shout that reminded me of Angie's victory wail.

I ran in just in time to catch Mama spanking David on his brand-new Lego table soccer arena that he has wished for since he was in Angie's womb. I reminded my son's mother that it was HIS gift and HIS birthday and subtly suggested that maybe HE should be the one wailing victoriously. 

As expected, Angie ignored me completely and continue to try and annihilate our second born. Luckily, he is a natural born learner and soon the room was filled with Angie's defeat wail. It's pretty much the same as the victory one; it's just louder, uglier, and a tad bit more guttural. Kinda like two alligators fighting over a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The primal scream apparently interested Peter, who came running to see what was going on. 

In case you didn't notice (I didn't until I heard the KNOCK), Peter had opened the door with his forehead. I should point out that Peter is the only one out of our family so far that has been tested for high IQ. I didn't quite make the connection between head-bashing the door open and pure genius, but it was David's day and Peter is prone to quirky klutziness from time to time. He gets this from Mama. Besides, Lauri had shown up and we had muffins to eat. Eight of them, according to whacko-man.

Unless you're kidless or a moron, you should pick up on the fact that Tommy was on a sugar high. He was cracking up hysterically because 'David is six, but the muffins are eight'. I immediately pulled Sami aside, who confirmed that the muffins were not leftover brownies meant for my birthday. I was relieved, but only slightly. 

Before my thoughts could dwell, Angie grabbed me and instructed me to pick up David and toss him in the air. Sure, no problem.

It only looks like Angie is stronger than me. I contribute my slightly weaker side to a pro-life reluctance to smashing our son's skull on the living room carpet as a result of a silly German tradition to raise the birthday boy into danger. Yeah, that's it. 

I lit the fire-cake and told David he had three per lung. When he didn't get that, I told him to just blow. 

As we were eating cake, Angie explained to her lady friends how David was a genius because his brain processes things differently and because...

'Holy shit! What are you DOING David??!!'

Brainiac-boy had slipped away from the cake frenzy and was standing in front of the TV swinging a chair over his head like a lasso.

My first thought was 'that last swing was about 2 millimeters from scratching my flat screen'.

My second thought was 'Genius my ass'.

My third thought was 'DDDAAAAAAAAVVVIIIDD!!!!'
Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: When Davey was a cowboy with the chair.
David: When I beat Mama by the futbol game.
Tom: When I by the muffins eat why I so funny. 

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: When you say I can't stay the night by my friend.
David: When I almost broke the TV and you scream on me.
Tom: When Lauri - he throw a truck on my foot.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: I want to play with all of Davey's toys and make them mine.
David: To play futbol with Yuki.
Tom: Papa, you know - MUFFINS - hahahahahahaha.....


  1. When is the book coming out? I think that 6-year-old is about ready for an amateur sized pool table. Deliver it yourself.

  2. That was me - Dana re. pool table. You guys need one!!!

  3. Dana, I'm waiting until the kids get old enough to sue me for psychological damage. Then I can ride the bad press and the sales will skyrocket. Then, I will be rich enough to afford the bigger apartment that would be needed for a pool table. It's all part of my plan.