Kiddie Antix

So, Mike posted abt sumthing that happed yesterday:

April,

Dear formerly little sis,

Today I discovered that my daughter has a tremendous memory.

I had been sitting in an outdoor chair, wearing nothing but my bright red shorts and baseball cap, I found in one of dad’s closets. I was reading a large blue-covered book and watching my children play. It made me feel just like dad, and I was certain for a time there, if you had seen me there, you might have thought I was dad too, except a much younger dad with a buffer body and a can of beer beneath my chair. My nipples flared out, and I hoped they would be enough to distract people from noticing I have no body hair.

My daughter was wearing her usual rainbow-coloured swimsuit and my son was in a manly blue swimsuit, since they had been playing in our outdoor pool. She poured water in a bucket, while my son steadied the bucket. They had dug up a part of the grass and created a dirt spot, which is the kind of thing mom would never have tolerated in me as a child, but I am parent of a newer generation. I am the kind of dad, who lets his kids play in the dirt and tear up the grass to get at it. I know you used to let the dogs tear up the yard, but I have kids, so dogs are no longer necessary for yard destruction.

After carrying the bucket of water to the mud, my daughter proceeded to make a series of mud pies for my son to sample, which he did with the obvious effort of a food connoisseur. He chewed it like mad with a “CRUNCH, CRAK, GRNCH, MFF, MF, MFF, CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH”. He obviously did not approve of his sister’s cooking, because he spit it out with a “BRBL PFFT PTOOBFT!” and declared to his sister, “Dat’s not chocolate!...It’s dirt!” I completely approved of his recommendation. I can remember many a time when our sister Elizabeth cooked up one of her burnt butt casseroles, when I was tempted to say something close to the same thing.

However, my son felt the need to share his food criticism with me, as if I could make my daughter cook better. He ran over to me with tears flaring up off his head and with an odd wobbly gait, as if he was running bow-legged. He protested to me that my daughter had told him the mud pies were chocolate. I said to him, “You saw her make them out of dirt. What did you expect?” But he whined on and on that he had been wronged by his sister, and the whining spurred in me such fatherly pride. After all, as you well know, formerly little sis, one of the main tenets of being a Patterson is to whine about being wronged, in a situation you could have clearly avoided. For examples of this, see any story our sister Liz may tell about her love life.

However, even a Patterson father has a threshold for whining, and I finally relented to confront my daughter about the situation with one of my evil stares to try to make her feel guilty. It didn’t work. I think it was because my hat was making her think of our dad, and his long gone ability to discipline children. My daughter simply said, “I wanted him to know the difference!” That took me back to the Easter, when I told her her mother’s breast milk was chocolate. What a memory my daughter has. I fooled her all those years ago, and now she fools her brother with a similar idea about chocolate. I was so gob smacked about the idea of having such a powerful memory, hair started to grow out of my ears, or I instantly grew side burns, or I grew an extra eyebrow. I am not sure. What I do know was that my son has now learned that if you pick up dirt and call it chocolate, it’s still dirt. There’s a valuable lesson, any way you look at it.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Oh so that's what all the yelling was abt outside yesterday. I was trying 2 prepare 4 my farm trip by reading sum veterinary texts I'd borrowed from the library. Then Liz came along, 2 do her laundry, and she sed this was a foolish waste of my time, cuz if I'm destined 2 B a vet, then a veterinary career will fall in my lap. Well, I think I shd prepare myself, y'know, just 2 B on the safe side.

Apes