This morning, Whit decided to come along with me and the paramour for the weekend tradition of the coffee-stand drive-through. He was pleased to see that they now have egg-nog, and ordered one. The barista asked him, “hot or cold?” His response:
Cold please…
…to match my heart.
She was amused…
Tucking him in is always a treat. If he’s not crack-up funny, Whit is often earnest and lovable at bedtime. I’ll kiss many of the stuffed animals, and the requisite “I love you”s are said. Unsurprisingly, he often inserts a Whitticism into the mix. Here’s the one I got last night:
No words can contain the magnitude of my love…
(at this point he made a moué with big, innocent doe eyes)
…so I’ll just give you an adoring look, and hope that sells it.
I think I did something right.
FLYING (extremely subdued) TACKLE HUG!!!!!!
(no really–he actually yells this while coming at you slo-mo. He developed this as a response to spilling his Mama’s hot drink one too many times)
So, I’m folding laundry, and hold up a pair of boy-sized boxer briefs. My son eschews underpants, and the only reason he’s ever worn them is for costuming purposes. These particular undies were from two summers ago, when he did a show, and needed to change in the dressing room. How they got into the laundry, I have no idea. They probably fell off of his shelf into the dirty basket below.
I ask if he thinks he’s outgrown them, and if I should get rid of them. His answer:
I don’t think my loins have grown much in the last year…
We went out the other night with the godmother, to play games at a local tea house. They had music that evening, and it hurt my soul: “guy with a guitar” at its worst. Our table was twitching the whole night, reacting to high notes that weren’t as high as they should have been.
Towards the end of the evening, guitar-guy actually attempted “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Godmother excused herself to the restroom, leaving me and the kids to sit through unplugged Queen. Whit didn’t recognize the song (no surprise there–it was both in the wrong key *and* awful). I explained to him that it was the song from “Wayne’s World,” and told him the title.
He then came over to me and whispered,
Sounds more like “Rhapsody in Brown” to me.
Scatological Gershwin jokes. My boy’s a treasure.
The paramour was standing in the bathroom with the door open, and had his shirt off. Whit says,
AAAAAHH! Put some clothes on! Or at least don’t take any more off–I’ve never seen your balls before, and I don’t want to start today.
My son–he speaks his mind, did I mention that?
One of my friends, whom I have known for many years, will be celebrating the anniversary of her divorce soon. I shall call her “Sally.” Her husband was (probably still is, I wouldn’t know) kind of a creepy letch. And by “kind of,” I mean “totally and completely.” He had some French name, like “Jean-Pierre.” We just called him “JP.”
The other day, we were all at a different friend’s house, playing games. “Uncle Julian” is the kids’ self-styled “fairy Godfather,” and one of my favoritest people in the whole wide world. His mom died recently, and one of the things he had on display was a boxed doll of a famous local TV clown that was popular when Julian was little. I grew up in Chicago, so I had Bozo, but all of my Seattle friends assure me that J.P. Patches was the shit in his day.
As awesome as J.P. Patches and his show were, however, the doll was distinctly creepy. As are pretty much all clown dolls. While discussing the relative creep factor of this particular doll, Whit (in all innocence) says,
Oh! Oh–since he’s so creepy, is that why everyone always called Sally’s husband “JP?”
My boy. Always tying things together in such neat packages of awesome.