We ask. We answer. We wonder.
This isn't going to be some grand argument or concise thesis. I'm restless in my spirit. My mind is bubbling, and usually it's focused on something specific- some unifying principle that when it's all done sort of gives it the sense of cohesiveness that makes the time investment of reading sort of pay-off.
Sorry.
I've been reminded that I don't have to be so serious all the time. That there was once a time when I enjoyed writing humorous anecdotes of a stay-at-home dad.
I don't know- I just haven't been feeling ... funny. Life just seems so ... well, for lack of a better word, serious. Maybe significant? My heart is sick for people who fail to find significance. Some would say that I place too MUCH significance on life- that I take every little thing too seriously. That it makes me high strung, and not fun to be around. I suppose.
---
It's been sort of brisk outside lately. Ok. It's been dangerous to BE outside for more than 15 minutes at a time. But there was a break in the clouds, and the sun came out for a couple minutes the other day. At that point I suited the boys up and tossed them out into a snow drift. Don't worry, it was all in good fun.
Anyways, since it was so cold, it seemed wise to me at the time to stick my head out the door every so often to make sure they hadn't stuck their tongues on a lamp post or fence, or suburban, or pretty much anything.
#2 has a propensity for removing vital objects of winter-protective wear, garments such as stocking caps, mittens, and once a jacket. So I make a note to take inventory when he comes inside, or even when we cross paths outside.
So stick my head outside to make sure everybody alright. #1 (Tigger) is fine, pushing a Scotts seedbroadcaster around (this is his favorite outdoor pastime- I see the postal service in his future possibly). Check.
I look around for 'Mo (#2). He should have a bright yellow fleece hat on. I see him with his long Beatles hair-cut. Hair. Hair, not hat. Not right. Affirmative, Houston, we've lost a visual on his winter-cap. Copy?
"Hey! Where's your hat!?"
"Know? Papa?" (-ese for "I haven't the foggiest idea- I didn't know it was my day to track it.")
He turns around, and I see it tucked ever-so gently into his jacket-hood.
"It's behind you, boy!" He turns around, looking for his tail. I see him rub the back of his head, as though a genie might *poof* out of his ear and explain what I mean to him.
"No! It's in your HOOD!"
Bear in mind now, I'm in my slippers and bathrobe, bon-bons in hand, TV remote in my bathrobe pocket- No position to stand out side and have a friendly discussion with anybody. Plus the commercials will be done any second now, and Dr. Ricky is caught in an elevator shaft, where he fell trying to rescue Nurse Rachel after she fell through the open doors on the top floor of General Hospital. Time's a'wastin.
As I watch 'Mo pat the back of his head, Tigger informs me (he is a very dutiful messenger) that 'Mo is also missing a ...
BOOT.
Seriously.
Like, his SHOE? Yeah. Like his shoe. I scan the horizon, fields of white snow surround me, reaching to the fine line of sky in the distance. I see in yonder field a small brown boot floating on a drift of powder.
"GET IN HERE! RIGHT NOW!" I shout. He looks at me, eyes welling up with tears (I can't actually see them, but I recognize the expression). You know what he says to me?
Standing there on a sheet of ice (aka my driveway) in the middle of an otherwise barren scape of frozenness and blowing arctic wind (OH CAN-A-DA! MY HOME AND NA-TIVE LAND!), my 2 1/2 year old explorer turns and says "WHY?!" with great exasperation and near-disbelief.
The door slams.
---
We watched a short video courtesy a local news station about how a guy ran out to his car to get a pack of smokes in his bare feet and pajamas, and five hours later was discovered on his own front porch by a neighbor. There are some fairly good shots of his feet. Nice. And they say that smoking can kill you.
Boots are stationed by the door, right next to hats, mittens, gloves, scarves, coats, snow-pants, flares, and snowshovels.
