“Who do you want to be like when you grow up?” was the question posed to our eldest.
“Two people,” he answered. “One, a Monster Truck Rally driver. Two, Grandpa Uhri.”
I smiled. “Why those two?”
“Because its fun, and because I want to be a wise Jesus guy.”
My eldest’s hands aren’t big enough yet to successfully use all the Playstation controls required for the Transformers (More Than Meets the Eye) game we bought. So instead, he watches me play.
Suffice it to say, I don’t have the limber phone-text-messaging thumbs of those half my age; so defeating StarScream at the end of the Antarctica level was a long, drawn-out process. It took me several hours to figure out how and then actually be coordinated enough to defeat the Decepticon.
Somehow, I managed to do it.
The transition movie after my crowning victory showed the Autobots leaving the snow-buried wreckage of Starscream. The camera closed in on the Decepticon, and suddenly his red eyes began to dimly glow again.
At first, my son didn’t realize what that meant.
“Uh-oh,” I said with a chuckle, “I bet we have to fight Starscream again.”
The rest of the night I heard about the drama as if I hadn’t comprehended it yet: “Dad, wasn’t that scary when his eyes came back to life?” He didn’t stop talking about it the rest of the night. “Do you think we’ll have to fight him again? I wonder what level he’ll be on.”
I smiled at his innocence and excitement about this game.
“Son, you have yet to fully appreciate the hackneyed plot device.”
I can’t wait to spend the time with him again, figuring out how to defeat that Transformer.
After waking up, using the bathroom, making coffee, getting a Pop Tart for my son, fetching clothes for the boys, scrounging for clothes for myself and ironing my shirt; I prayed:
“Thank you, Lord, for this day. Let me remain in prayer today, putting You first in all things…”
I am the epitome of comedy, no?
“I might be lactose intolerant but I don’t let it stop me. Life without cheese just isn’t worth it. I will eat just about anything if its got cheese on it. If it had enough cheese on it, I’d eat a bag of garbage.”
I should have watched my mouth. My coworkers are looking for a bag of trash and a case of Kraft singles.
Our eldest gave Mom a gladiola as a Mother’s Day gift. It came home in a customized Cool Whip container. Around its sides he wrapped a piece of green construction paper and cut the top edges into strips. The strips curled down like the leaves of a plant — to go with the gift’s theme.
Last weekend, Mom transferred the gladiola to a proper pot, and the border found itself homeless. It was floating around the house in that we-can’t-throw-it-away-yet shuffle.
Yesterday, he put it on his head like a tiera and pranced about the house declaring, “I am the Garden Chef!”
“I am the *Garden Chef*.”
I head to the restroom to take care of some morning business, and I see two of my coworkers go in before I get there. One of them, Jim, waves at me and offers a Cheshire grin.
Inside, they’re both doing their thing. When I walk in, Jim says, “Popular place.”
I reply, “It’s a party…”
I head into a stall and in by best Ah-nold impression I continue: “…and I’m the party pooper!”