Food and magical logic

November 6, 8:38 PMDallas Fatherhood ExaminerPhilip Leaf

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I should have mentioned sooner that the Romanian Food Festival is going on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in Colleyville.  The plan is to take the kids tomorrow, maybe after nap time.  Directions are here.

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Now onto the fun stuff... MY KIDS!  Who were primed for whine when I picked them up after work.  Every other sentence was punctuated by the cartoon down turned corners of the mouth and that unholy sound that no creature makes naturally, except children, and only artificially.  They naturally make it artificially.  It isn't real crying.  I know that sound.  I try to fix that sound.  The unholy wail I respond to by feeding them peanut butter.

And it was because of the whine that I told the Magician that if I finished my meal before he did that he would have to go to bed.  Which saw spaghetti travel at speeds faster than spaghetti has ever traveled before.  It was like the Bell X1 of spaghetti.  Chuck Yeaghetti.  Certainly at least Mario Anghetti. 

Point is that the food flew in.  Or drove in.  Very fast and to the left.  Whatever.  These metaphors are dumb.

But he isn't.  Oh, no.  Because I offered him his sister's seconds after she didn't want any more.  And he immediately got a look in his eyes like he's heard this song before and knows the lyrics and he says, "If you see food in the bowl do I still have to go to bed?" 

I thought that was pretty insightful on his part.

And the Angel, so you know, is a drama queen.  I took his bottle of gas drops from his hand before I got him out of his crib, not knowing that they were married.  He threw himself down and flailed his head back into the bars of the crib, threw himself forward and face planted on the mattress.  Then repeated.  Plus various seizures, comas, asphyxiations, and a constant lung exploding, ear splitting caterwaul that had him purple.  Bars, mattress, seizure... bars, mattress, asphyxiation... I couldn't stop laughing long enough to pick him up.  And when I finally did he threw himself into my neck and sobbed a sad story about the miserable wreck his life had become since she dun left him. 

The bottle of gas drops, that is.

Ah, the fires of youth.