The standoff lasted for weeks. Son #1 thought he was too cool for hugs or kisses from dad anymore. But I’m pleased to announce that after a protracted negotiation, we have reached an amicable settlement: I am entitled to receive up to four hugs and one kiss per day. Some restrictions apply: no embarrassing moments in front of friends. 

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.

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.

The first time I ever canvassed door-to-door for a political candidate was in 1976, when I knocked on every door of every little brick row home on our block stumping for my candidate.

Tonight I rediscovered an old elementary school project, for which I’d written the following:

Go Ford

Well, it’s election day and I’m rooting for someone. Guess who??? Gerald R. Ford. He may have lost the election, but I still thought he was the best president of my time yet. Jimmy Carter won this year–that was an upset–in more than one way.

Apparently I was blogger ahead of his time.

As part of his orientation for first grade, our son received a handwritten letter from a boy at his new school:

Dear Friend,

I’m glad that you are here at _ _ E! I will see you next year. Our gym teacher is nice. Art class is fun. We get to take books from the library. Music is fun. And we get to keep books from the book fair. And it is fun at _ _ E.

Your friend,
Steven

We have a bathroom.