Left of the Dial

another thing to look forward to

So I'm making coffee as the two youngest are eating breakfast. They're watching a cartoon, but I'm not awake enough—note the "making coffee," not "drinking coffee" bit—to know what, and the television is mercifully out of my line of sight. 

The Brawn says, matter-of-factly, "When you get older your grip looses." He takes another bite. "You can't hold on like when you were young." 

The Golden Weasel chews thoughtfully. "Yeah," she agrees. 

our juvenile delinquency of the day

I just walked in to tell Top Management dinner was ready. She slowly turned to look at me and there was absolutely no one at home. 

It was incredibly disconcerting, until I realized she was listening to Hamilton. 

I feel like that preacher from back in the day, trying to stem the tide, all King Canute-like. "The beat, the beat, the beat!" 

 

(I love that the preacher accidentally admits that he loves that demon rock and roll. Give in, preacher man: resistance is futile.) 

Frankenstein was right

Top Management and I have a friend who once told us that it never gets easier, that you don't actually worry less as they get older, the worries just change, shift, transmogrify and, if anything, they get worse, since they're no longer just a matter of putting some bacitracin and bandaids on the boo-boos. 

Which brings us to tonight. I'm getting some IMs from Max about, of all things, who would win, Piano Man or Rocket Man, and arguments are being put forth for the pros and cons of each side. And she causally adds: 

(I'm half paying attention to making sure the fire alarm doesn't start to go off—someone spilled food on the burners and it's smoking a little)

opIOYUP that just caught fire for a second but it's okay fire's out and the window is open

we're all good

didn't mean to panic you, sorry, it's all good, I promise everything is fine

it was only on fire for a split second

I mean...look. I don't think of myself as one of them helicopter parents or nothing but what in the hell, Max. You know, it's not like "opIOYUP" is too concerning or anything. Oh, it only caught fire for a split second? A length of time that only actually exists in superhero comics? I'm so relieved. 

the best age

My brother the salesman once explained to me, before any of us had kids, the secret to starting a conversation with a parent. Simply ask how old their kid is and then respond, "oh, that's a great age." Since it is. They all are. But it makes the parent happy, especially if it's their first kid. 

The Brawn, recently turned 7, is at a great age. 

I look up from grating cheddar—and since I'm one of the very few individuals who doesn't care for cheese, this is not my favorite part of meal prep—to see him and the Golden Weasel wrestling in the living room. 

"Hey!" I shout wittily, lovingly and mellifluously. "Not in front of the TV. Go do that somewhere where you'll break something I don't care about...like one of your arms." 

The Golden Weasel scampers off, and the Brawn starts to follow, before pausing as my words sink in. He turns to smile at me. 

"So harsh!" He gives a thumbs up and adds as he runs after his big sister. "Good one, Dad!"