Several months ago The Foo Fighters were on Austin City Limits.  I recorded the show and watch it from time to time.  It brought a tear to my eye, when a few months ago, while watching the show for the umteenth time, The Firstborn came running into the living room and said, “Oh daddy, who’s that?”

I replied, “That, buddy, is The Foo Fighters.”

To which he responded, “Oh I like them.”

He darted to his room and emerged with guitar in hand and said, “I need my pick.”

From that day on, when the stresses of being a toddler get to be too much, The Firstborn asks, “Dad, can we rock out with the Foo Fighters.”

*sniffle sniffle tear*

“Of course we can, son.”

To which he almost always says, “Alright.  I need my pick.  Stay right there.”

We now have the Subsequent Child in on the act and The Wife wishes we would take this show on the road.

We aren’t very good…yet.

Rock on little ones, rock on.

For more pictures of Band Practice, click here.

Now most sophisticated folks will do the easy thing and just hire a waste management company to come by the house once a week and pick up your trash for you…for a price.

But we-uns just ain’t that sophisticated.  The money we pay in county taxes also goes toward operating waste facilities and there’s an opportunity for adventure.

The opportunity for adventure hides just beneath the surface of everyday tasks for a 4 year old.

I asked The Firstborn if he wanted to be my helper and go the dump.  He was trying to contain his excitement when he asked, “Are we going to drive the truck?”

When I had answered him in the affirmative, he let out a resounding, “WooWhoo.”

I said, “Ok . Get your shoes and your jacket on and we can go.”

He then stopped in his tracks, spun around, and said to me with all the seriousness of a child twice his age,

But Papa, because of the sun I am also going to need my goggles.

Of course you do, son.  Of course you do.

The Firstborn’s mother hates it when I let the little ones wear whatever they want in public, but then again, it’s just the dump.

I tried to explain why daddy takes the trash to the dump and about why we pay taxes and how the founding fathers fought against the tyranny of taxes…at which point he said…

Just go superfast please.

I love little adventures like this.  I get to see the world through the slightly shaded goggles of a four year old and can appreciate being able to reach the gas pedal.

I have never been one for bird watching.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I dislike birds.  I just don’t think about them much.

But after my last encounter with a bird, I am starting to develop a sense of bird paranoia.  I am not talking about a fear of birds, ornithophobia – a word derived from the Greek “ornithos” (bird) and “phobos” (fear)…

And I am also not a talking about being paranoid of birds…again…I don’t really think about birds all that much….but I do think that I am a magnet for birds that suffer paranoia.

The definition of paranoia…

- noun
1. Psychiatry. a mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others, sometimes progressing to disturbances of consciousness and aggressive acts believed to be performed in self-defense or as a mission.

2. baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others.

I think that birds hate me.  No.  Let me clarify.  Birds hate when I drive our minivan and they will  go out of their way to attack the minivan…much to their demise.

The picture above is all the evidence that remains that there was ever a small bird on the side of the highway last Sunday morning approximately 10 minutes before church.  The only rational explanation for the bird explosion…

(and that’s exactly the proper term for when your minvan hits a bird at 65mph)

When a tragedy like this occurs, you are left with the question… “WHY?”

Maybe the only answer to the question is that the bird was suffering from some kind of bird paranoia.

See definition #2.

(DISCLAIMER:  Although this tragic event caught us all by surprise, the author, in full disclosure, must admit that this is not the first time he has “popped” a bird in mid flight…while driving the minivan…on that stretch of highway…at that same time.)

While most kids were planning their Saturday morning adventures into the newly created tundra, our kids were puking.

I won’t go int o the details.  I think the picture sums it up.

The Wife got up to answer the phone and then turned around to find this.

Poor little guy.

The Firstborn also tossed his cookies later that night, and then The Wife thought she would join the Puking Party.  She’s more than 6 months pregnant with The Latest Edition, so puking for her is a regular activity that pretty much goes undetected.

I have yet to loose my lunch, but then again, I stayed in the workshop all weekend playing with tools.

What?

I am not going near those Outbreak monkeys.

The Firstborn had enjoyed watching and feeding his cousins’ fish while visiting them that fall.  He talked about how much he loved fish and how he wished he had a fish to feed.  I, being the responsible father that I am, completely ignored these wishes and refused to give into his pleas.  The Wife, being the intelligent mother that she is, knew that if she presented me with a Low-Cost Fish Proposal, then she could not only check that off her Christmas list, but also give her precious Firstborn the “one thing [he] wanted!”

This is what the Wife said. “Honey, do you mind if Auntie K gets the boys a fish for Christmas?”

“A fish,” I replied.  “Sure.  No problem.”

I mean how much trouble could A fish be.

In my head (which sometimes is revealed to be a dark and empty vacuum),  I was thinking…”Oh, a nice little bowl with a tiny goldfish that we can just flush when dead and then use the fish bowl as a piggy bank…Sure.  No problem.”

Fast forward to Christmas morning.  Auntie K hands the boys a huge box…a box that contains a 10 gallon fish tank, a filter, various chemicals, fish food, rocks, and an assortment of aquarium accoutrement.

I then realized that “A fish” did not mean 1 small fish in a fish bowl, but a full sized aquatic chemistry experiment conveniently packaged for home use.

I knew that things would not go well for me, the boys and the unfortunate fish that were to soon come in contact with our family.

But what could I do, the boys were….overjoyed probably isn’t a strong enough word.

We stopped by Wal-Mart on the way home from our Christmas visit (I am telling you….the boys wouldn’t shut up about getting some fish) and purchased 5 fish. The Firstborn had named them by the time we got home (with a little bit of help from his father).  So late that evening we said hello to the newest members of our family: Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dumb, Fish Van Dyke (the Firstborn named that one), Samuel L. Jackson (the “sucker” fish), and an orange and white Koi named….Lane Kiffin.

Things did not go well.  The fish…had…um…issues.

There was overfeeding, clogged filters, elevated nitrate levels, and pH problems.

But I can say for about two and a half days, the boys thoroughly enjoyed the Fab Five.

About the time that algae started to cloud the water is when the boys started to loose interest, and soon after that is when the fish decided they had had enough.

First it was Tweedle Dee.  He/she…I don’t know…was the smallest of the bunch, and frankly I am surprised he/she made it as long as he/she did.

In sort of symbolic gesture Tweedle Dumb followed the next day.

Samuel L. Jackson was a quiet and  reserved fish and toughed it out for about another week.

Actually I’m not sure how long he lived.

The other fish floated when they died.  Sam was on the bottom, stiff as a board; he could have been there for a few days. I have no idea.

Fish Van Dyke (the largest of the gold fish) hung in there for almost two weeks, but sadly he never really had a chance.

It’s not like we are trying to kill them.

We have cleaned the tank, changed out the water, added enzymes, changed the filter, researched, and even prayed from them…but I am afraid that this is more a Chemistry experiment than anything else.

I failed Chemistry.

The Wife and I decided to give it one more shot.  We still had one live fish…ironically…Lane Kiffin.  Maybe by now we were doing something right.

So we headed back to Wal-Mart last night and let the Firstborn pick out another fish.

And his name…

Fish Van Dyke…what else?

I just flushed Fish Vand Dyke down the toilet and I don’t think Lane Kiffin is going to  make it through the night.

.

.

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…Personally, I won’t mind when I have to flush Lane Kiffin.

On a recent trip to the grocery store (in which the boys were in tow), a nice old lady commented to The Wife at what beautiful blond hair our  little GIRL had.  The Wife just smiled and corrected the sweet old lady with a gentle word and a slight chuckle.  Upon returning home, she informed me that The Subsequent child was mistaken for a girl….again.

It must be time for a haircut.

We aren’t big on haircuts around here.  My philosophy is this…

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 or 13 years of age, the boys will have to start working for a living.  (The Wife says more like 16, but we’ll see about that…)  So once they are  in the working world they will have to look clean, neat, and professional for the rest of their lives, so for now…let the hair go.  Who cares?

But as you can tell from the picture above, all the boys (including yours truly) could use at least a trim.  Between the mistaken gender, The Firstborn’s mullet development, and my having to wear a hat everyday to keep the hair under control, it was probably a good idea.

And just as a side note:

The last time I cut my hair was July 3, 2009.  I won a $10 bet by not cutting it for 6 months.  As for the beard, I shaved 20 minutes before this picture was taken.

The Wife infomed me that she needed some maternity jeans.

I asked her (as any normal loving husband would), “Aren’t those maternity jeans you are wearing now?”

She replied, “Yes, but these don’t fit right and they are uncomfortable.”

When you are pregnant, does anything fit right and aren’t you always uncomfortable?

That God’s way of convincing you to push that kid out.  You want to fit into your favorite blue jeans again and be able to sleep through the night.

Anyway, The Wife rarely shops for new clothes and since she is the mother of my children…she desreves a new pair of jeans.  How much could an article of clothing made of denim and spandex cost anyway?

*GASP*

Are you kidding me?  If my life depended on it…if I was being held against my will and my ticket to freedom was to estimate how much a pair of pregnant lady jeans cost…I would die…I would never take a breath as a free man again.

I couldn’t believe they could cost that much.

The Wife was putting on a good show at the Pregnant Lady Jean Store.  You know the whole, “I really like how comfortable these are, but we can’t pay that much….I guess I’ll just keep wearing these old ones that I hate and that cut off the circulation of blood to your unborn child” routine.

I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.  But I did tell her that for that price, I had better see her wear those everyday until this baby is born.

And after that I might squeeze into them and wear them myself…I mean they do have spandex around the stomach area.  Why don’t I have a pair?

The Firstborn received a small plastic red “egg” from his Mo-Mo (a.k.a. Grandmother) as a stocking stuffer on Christmas morning.  He thought he was just getting an egg to throw around and in which to store his ‘treasures’.

(‘Treasures’ can be anything from a piece of gravel to a discarded wing nut.)

Much to his suprise, the egg was filled with what he thought was the largest piece of gum he had ever seen.

With eyes wide open as if he had just met Spiderman, he said, ” I would like to have that gum, please.”

I informed him that it wasn’t gum.  “This is Silly Putty.”

*BLANK STARE*

“But I like gum,” he replied.

I explained that even though it looked like gum, he was not to put it in his or any other living creature’s mouth.

He seemed somewhat disinterested in my disseration of the sceientific properties of Silly Putty until I mentioned that it bounced like a ball.

To him… something that bounces means that it must be thrown.

Needlesstosay, the better part of the next five minutes was spent with me rolling the Silly Putty into a ball, The Firstborn throwing it on the floor, and then him chasing it like Rocky Balboa trying to catch a chicken.

Over the next two weeks that Silly Putty…renamed “Gooey Gum” (we have no idea where he came up with that name for it) was bounced off of every flat surface in our house, and The Wife and I started finding pieces of it everywhere.

Of course it was in the carpet…

And in The Subsequent child’s hair…

On various pieces of furniture…

In the bathtub…

On the dashboard of the minivan…

And in The Wife’s purse.

But the most interesting place of all…

On the dog.

What you must understand is that our dog is going on 15 years old and basically hates his life and wishes he were dead.  He especially doesn’t like kids…not even our kids.  So the fact that The Firstborn was able to adhere the “Gooey Gum” to the dog is still a mystery.

And no, we didn’t remove the “Gooey Gum” from the dog…like I said…he’s 15 years old and I don’t think he likes us either.