Rotten Egg

Elijah and Luca love each other.  Let’s get that out of the way.  They really, really love each other and it melts my head that they are such great friends.

And they they are archenemies.  Their only goal in life is to destroy one another.

I think it came down to whoever invented the phrase, “Last one ___ is a rotten egg!”  I imagine it was Diana in a bid to get them to please put their pj’s on.  But now all they care about is not being a rotten egg.  Their entire reason for being is to not be sulfurous and icky.

Run up the stairs?  Eat your soup?  Walk down the street?  Get your shirt on?  Better hurry up or you’ll be a rotten egg, my friend. 

I particularly like how they will declare it is a rotten egg race three quarters of the way to whatever goal is set in front of them.  They’ll be an inch away from a tree and say, “Last one to the tree is a rotten egg!”  Touch.  Last one to ascend this last rung to the top bunk is a rotten egg.

Last Saturday, Luca had an inspired rotten egg challenge.  “Last one to say ‘Fart’ is a rotten egg!”  Now, as you recall, the F Word is a felony in our house.  You say that word and you go sit on the steps. 

Both boys stared at each other.  What was more important?  Rotten-ness?  Or punishment?  Who dares say fart?

Well, truth me told they both caved at the same time and spoke the unspeakable.  They also both immediately said, “Ooooooh!  You said the F Word!”

I informed them that I was not punishing anyone and their cuteness outweighed my hatred of semi obscene language.

Which lead to a furious Fart cavalcade.  

Hot For Teacher

A few months ago, I went to the Apple store to cash in a gift card.  I fully intended to use it to purchase an ipad for the family because Luca’s use of our Kindle on the toilet had, in my opinion, rendered it radioactive. 

But I found myself standing in front of the speakers.  A blue shirted Apple hipster was describing the merits of the most expensive one on the shelf.  Any self-respecting audiophile would accept nothing less.  No wanting to seem uncool or seem like I didn’t know what “audiophile” meant, I blurted out, “I’ll take it.”

In the end, the overpriced back monolith currently located in our kitchen is pretty awesome.  And it’s kept Elijah and Luca’s love of rock alive and well.  Particularly now that we’re able to rattle the wine glasses in our cabinets.

I’ve had to re-think the musical choices to keep up with their love, nay, need to rock.  I tossed my John Denver’s greatest hits into the virtual waste basket and loaded up my ipod with Black Sabbath, AC/DC and Metallica.  Oh, and we are definitely getting the Led out.

However, the artist the boys (and most fraternity members circa 1985) hold up as the greatest band of all time? Van Halen.  Guitar virtuoso and iconic shredder Eddie Van Halen. Pure sex stuffed in spandex David Lee Roth.  And the other two.

The minute the double drum kits erupt in the song “Hot For Teacher” Eli and Luca go absolutely nuts.  They aren’t really sure what “Hot For Teacher” means, despite the fact that I scream the lyrics into their faces as I play air guitar.

As I’ve said before, Grover the dog gets really agitated when we have our impromptu mosh puts in the kitchen.  Add to that now a near blood letting level of volume and things get a little dangerous.  For me.  He got so whipped up that he grabbed my shirt in his teeth and almost tore the sleeve off.  Which made my shirt rock even harder.     

Bubble Gum

Last Saturday, I took the boys and cousin Rory to the park for some underdogs on the swings and that timeless game, “Why is that man smoking, daddy?”

After doing the plate spinning of trying to keep three kids swinging at the same time, (“Pump your legs!  Pump your legs!”) I suggested we do something, anything but swinging.

Elijah suggested we play a game of “Alligator,” which involves running between two patches of wood chips, trying not to get tagged by the it-alligator.  For Luca, it also involves falling. Every.  Single.  Time.  Within five minutes, he had blood pouring down both his legs.  But his desire to play with the big kids overshadowed his desire to cry about his mangled knees.

But let me back up to the start of the game.  I asked the rules and regulations and chances the game will result in mangled knees and Eli said we would officially pick our alligator by “Bubble Gum Bubble Gum.”

Do you know this?  Bubble gum bubble gum in a dish, how many pieces do you wish?  How did he know this? The dish gum thing was how I chose “it” when I was 6.  How on earth did this custom live for the next 35 years? 

Who is in charge of this?  Is there some guy whose job it is to pass along all knock knock jokes, bubble gum bubble gums and nicknames for butts to every six year old?  If so, how do I get this job?

It’s these things that drum up the most complicated emotions for me.  I love that he knows stuff not taught by me.  I love that he’s turning into his own little person.  But I hate that he isn’t my sole property anymore.  I hate that I have no control over every aspect of his life.

And in case you are wondering, yes, I did cheat when it came down to me picking how many bubble gum pieces I wished.  Yes I did the math in my head instead of randomly picking a number out of the air. 

But I cheated so I would have to be “it.”  So I’m not all bad.

Cake Boss

Last night, I came home from work and after much negotiation, got the boys into their pajamas.  Luca began begging Elijah to join him the closet “for creating.”  I rousted them out of the closet with the exposed wires and other death things and Luca began to weep hysterically.

I informed him that he could do his creating in any other non fatal area of the house and asked him what they were so passionate about creating.

“We’re..sniff sniff…making cakes.”

“I love cakes,” I said. “Let’s play cake store and you can sell me your creations.”

They excitedly agreed and I got into character.  I exited the room their dad and entered a giant fat man who could not eat enough cake.

“I don’t like that voice and I don’t like that you are fat.  Be someone else,” Eli demanded.

Fine.  I decided to do a character based loosely on Eddie Murphy in “Beverly Hills Cop.”  Or rather the wildly inappropriate homosexual voice he does at one point in the film.  I’m not proud of it. But I don’t have very many funny voices in my arsenal. 

The boys let me know that their cake store sold two kind of cake: sea animal cake and regular animal cake.  I chose sea animal.  Luca told me not to eat the piece with the shark in it.  Good idea.

Then to spice things up, I asked the two small salesmen if they had a bathroom in the store because I had to poop.  This was the funniest thing in the history of the world, so I kept the bit going, informing them it was an emergency and I would need to go in their closet.

Tears streamed down their faces as they directed me to places in the room in which to pretend defecate.

I know.  We could have been reading or learning or writing letters to Santa.  Literally, millions of other activities above base potty humor.  But damn it, sometimes you just have to sit on a hamper and make a disgusting noise.

After my awful, awful customer left the premises, and we elected Eli to be the next customer.

He entered and said in a funny voice, “Do you have a bathroom?” 

Boats

Last Saturday, Luca and Elijah and I drove up to Ocomowacoconomoconowoc, Wisconsin to visit my pal Jimmy’s parent’s cabin.  Picture in your mind the greatest lakeside cabin in the world.  Now make in 50% nicer and charming-er.  Then add a boat.  And a couple American flags.

I had to physically restrain Elijah from running out to the dock before putting on a life vest.  Conversely, I had to physically force Luca out onto dock, whose fear of water continues to baffle me.

I became the designated worm/hook getter on-er, but the slimy beasts quickly became pets with names like “Wormy” and, well, “Slimy.”  Jimmy suggested we all take the speedboat to a lakeside bar to see if outboard motor stink really enhances the taste of burgers.

Once we started, Elijah exclaimed, “I’ve never been on a boat before!”  Ouch.  How could he have gone 6 years without ever being on a boat?  Does that make me a bad dad?  No.  Right?  Right?  No.  Right?

I turned my attention to the 3 year old, who was rocking back and forth saying, “The boat is going to fall over…the boat is going to fall over…”  I managed to quell his phobia by teaching him the fine art of peeing off the back of the boat.  Of course every other child under the age of 40 needed to immediately try their, uh, hands at peeing off the back. 

They even got the opportunity to take a shot at steering.  Elijah drove in a completely Elijah-way.  Casually, with little regard for safety or maritime law.  Luca, of course, drove very Luca-y.  With great concentration and focus.

Eventually, we made it back and did a little more fishing.  With yours truly being the only one to nab a fish.  Which hoisted me to god-like status in the boy’s eyes.  Hopefully undoing some of that whole not ever taking them on a boat thing.