SonOne said this to me tonight:

Is that all you do at work, is work on a computer? That must not be an important job–manager.

Our friend who is a plumber (ok, how lucky is THAT?) was waiting at the house when Son One and his mother came home.

So, as Mike was getting to work, Mr. Smartypants got a note pad and a pencil, then plopped himself onto the hamper to take notes. After a few minutes of still unsuccessful augering, the boy started taking over.

Son One: That looks it will make it worse. You’re just going to make it worse with that thing.
Mike: No, buddy, the auger isn’t going to make it worse.
Son One: Have you thought about a wrench?
Mike: Yeah, buddy, I have one of those, but I don’t think it will help with this.
Son One:  Have you tried a plunger. I think that would work better.
Mike: Yeah, we already tried plunging.
Son One: I think there’s a star wars figure down there.
Mike: [Thinking that we’re onto something?] Yeah, that could be. It would be the right size, and I’ll bet that’s what it is.
[Mom signals that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.]
Son One: Or it could be a magazine. Or a toothbrush holder.
Mom: It’s not the toothbrush holder. It’s right there.
Son One: No, we used to have a different one, and it went right down in there.

Blessed are the contractors who indulge our talkative son.

Not for a second did I believe that today’s debate would be called off. (For that matter, I never thought that McCain’s campaign was suspended.)

So I have just one wish for my favorite Democratic nominee ever. As we say when we step up to the golf tee, “Grip it and rip it!”

Obama has, I believe, crossed the “is presidential” threshold. People know he’s smart and that he has general mastery of issues. He is a great public speaker, and has motivated millions of citizens to engage in presidential politics. But for whatever reason he has a tendency to drop his engaging and often humorous personality when he’s in a debate.

He has a habit of answering questions as though he must answer very precisely and in depth, as though he is answering a complicated legal question posed by his favorite law school professor. Lord knows that I would welcome a studeous president, but the audience of the debate is not the moderator. Style matters. It’s an important part of being persuasive.

So I hope that candidate Obama will be more like his stump speech or late night talk show self, not his carefully parsed self. We’ll see!

While running an errand this afternoon with Son One, an overhead pigeon dropped a yuck bomb on my wrist. In response, the little twerp looked up at pigeons roosting and bellowed. “Pigeons One, Daddy Zero. Yay pigeons!”

That’s it. He’s OUT of the will.

Little Bip is a great audience for his daddy’s singing. He has the good taste not to cry or vomit whenever I sing to him. Mostly he goes to sleep. Nobody likes an unruly audience.

Having already raised a boy who so loves his daddy’s singing that I’m still required to perform every night at bedtime, I’m a little weary of my greatest hits (Blackbird, Rainbow Connection, My Bonnie, You Are My Sunshine, and Van Lingle Mungo.) To keep myself entertained through the feedings in the wee hours, I’ve been working up silly baby-themed parodies of well known tunes.

This strikes me as a perfect opportunity for some bloggy interactivity, so here’s the offer: make up some funny lyrics to a song I know. Post them in the comments here or on Facebook. If I get any worthy entries, defined entirely by my own amusement, I will record a video of me singing your lyrics to Bryan and post them here for you to see/hear. No cussing, now, you hear?! Doesn’t have to be a whole song, just a verse or a verse/chorus. Have fun! There is no limit to the number I’ll perform, so keep ‘em coming. I need material.

Not only will you have the pleasure of hearing me sing (lucky you), but you’ll also get to see how the song is received by its extremely cute audience.

In the sad event that I don’t get ANY entries, I will withhold the cute baby pictures for ransom.

Examples of what I’ve been singing the last couple days:

Sung to the tune of “Brandy” by Looking Glass:

There’s a family, in a little town/
With a baby, and they all gather ’round/
His nurs’ry crib, and try to put him down/
And they pat his little behind.

He hears them say Baby, you’re a fine lad (you’re a fine lad)
Such a strong man you will be (such a fine lad)
But alas, my favorite show’s on the TV.
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit, dooda-dit-dooda-dit).

Or how about this one, sung to the tune of Malvina Reynolds’ “Little Boxes,” also known as the theme song to the show Weeds:

Little onesies on the baby, little onesies close with snippy-snappies.
Little onesies on the baby, little onesies all the same.
There’s a green one and a blue one and a white one and a yellow one.
They all close up with snippy-snappies and they all look just the same.

And the baby in the onesie, goes off to his doctor’s office.
The nurse takes off the onesie, and the baby, he gets weighed.
First he’s five pounds, then six pounds, then seven pounds, or even eight pounds,
Then the onesie gets snippy-snappied, and he goes home the way he came.

Warning–if you have no experience with Pokemon, this post is going to go right over your head. It nearly went over mine.

Dad: If you were a pokemon, what type would you be?
Son One: Probably a psychic type. I could confuse people with my thoughts.
Dad: Wow, you would be good at that! What about me?
Son One: You are always using things that are plugged in. You have the computer, the Wii, the DS. You are an electric type.
Dad: That makes total sense. I do use a lot of electric things. But then what is your little brother?
Son One: He’s a milk type. His special attacks are burps and stinkbombs.

I was up with Little Bip at 2 AM last night. The house was quiet. After he downed his bottle and let forth a mighty burp, we stared at each other for a long time. He considered me. I looked back into his searching eyes. I started to tear up. There was no doubt now that this is my little boy.

And now ya’ll know my deepest secret. I’m a big ol’ sentimental softie.