April's Real Blog

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Kids doing the darndnest things?

I asked Mom Y it's like every1 is focusing on Mike l8ly, and Mom sed, "It's the circle of life, April! Mike and Deanna are a young, married couple with small children, roughly the same age that Mike and Liz were when every1 started focusing on yr dad and me. Everything has come full circle! Isn't that wonderful?" I sed, "No. Mike's boring, and Liz and I still have stories 2 tell in our own lives!" Mom sed, "Liz has 2 B patient, since her story is keeping ppl in suspense and keeps bringing them back. And what R U complaining abt? "We did that 'driving' thing last wk!" And I sed, "Mom, U R seriously torturing Liz, U have no idea what all this 'patience' is doing 2 her. And the 'driving' thing was totally lame, since I've had my G2 since early December." Mom sed, "Quit being such a picky face. Where's yr father?" I sed, "Workshop." Mom was all, "I've got to go yell @ him." I asked, "What 4?" Mom was like, "I haven't narrowed it down yet, but I'll think of it on the way 2 the workshop."

NEway, here is the l8est story from Mike:

Formerly little sis. Sometimes you have to buy the high quality mittens. I know that mom has trained you and me since we were little to always try and find a bargain, to shave the sheets in order to make things last; but there are times when quality has to take precedence. The idea of buying a mitten for a boy, where the mitten is sized bigger than his hands, on the premise that his hands will grow into them is patently wrong. That is girl thought. A boy will go out in the snow and try his best to destroy his clothing and he is often successful. A girl might demurely touch the snow, and might be able to make a mitten last; but a boy is a little dynamo of clothing destruction.

I tried to explain this concept to my wife, the lovely Deanna; but she did not believe me. There she was in her purple turtleneck sweater with matching socks, kneeling down before my boy putting on his coat with the mittens attached to it. All I could think was, my boy will destroy those cheap, oversized mittens in about 2 seconds out in the snow. Deanna said, “No Michael. Our children will use their sand buckets and shovels, and they will hardly even touch the snow. These mittens are perfectly fine. They even have a little mitten security line to make sure he doesn’t lose them.” I thought, “Buckets, security lines? These are not how a man plays in the snow.”

Well, to be doubly sure, my wife pushed the mittens firmly onto his hands and sent him out into the cold though the front door, carrying his bucket and shovel. My daughter, dressed in her all-pink outfit and I were already outside waiting for him. I was busy shoveling the sidewalk. You know, April, how sometimes when you shovel a sidewalk, it seems like you shovel and shovel, and all the snow stays the same place? This was one of those kinds of days.

Naturally since his mitten was oversized so he could “grow into” it, it fell off his hand almost immediately after exiting the house and my daughter noticed. Being the bright and intelligent girl she is (taking after me, of course) she suggested that my son could turn those mittens into Australian bull-roarers. She deposited snow into each mitten and then encouraged my son to whirl them around as if he were an Australian aborigine. This he did this to great effect, the whirling part and not the aboriginal part. In fact, when he had both mittens filled with snow; he whirled them around so boyishly that it was difficult to tell the difference between them and a couple of carrots. You may laugh, little sis, but around my household, a carrot is a very serious vegetable.

Eventually I got tired of clearing the sidewalk in front of our house, and seeing the same amount of snow there. So, I motioned for the kids to come in for lunch. My lovely wife, Deanna, showed me my son's gloves all pulled into long ribbons of mitten fabric and looking a lot like carrots.

I said to her, “Now, Deanna, will you buy higher quality mittens for my son?” She replied, “Michael. These gloves are still perfectly fine, once they are dried and reshaped.”

By the way, if you see my son and it looks like his hands are really nice carrots, they aren’t.

Michael Patterson
BTW, Mike, Mom wants U 2 come over and shovel, so she and Dad can crow abt what a "wonderful son" U R and how they did such a fantastic job raising U.


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  • At 9:17 AM, Anonymous michael patterson said…


    Formerly little sis. Ooh! Praise from mom and dad! I'll be right over.

    Also, if while I'm shoveling, you could mention to them that I also wrote a best-selling novel they could praise me about, that would be great.

    Michael Patterson

  • At 1:52 PM, Blogger April Patterson said…

    so, after mike shoveled our walk, mom made him hot chocolate w/mini-marshmallows and made dad read from stone season while mom massaged mike's shoulders. between paragraphs, mom went, "our son is such a talented author and good, dutiful son!"

    neway, all that made me kinda queasy, so i called jeremy and now i'm @ his place and we're studying.


  • At 2:33 PM, Blogger DreadedCandiru2 said…

    The thought of the book makes me queasy too, kiddo. It's amazing how he doesn't realize that Elly loves the thing because she half-way wrote it.

  • At 1:21 AM, Anonymous michael patterson said…


    Formerly little sis. As I predicted last Saturday, the stupefied expression on my wife Deanna’s face when I talked about how my little sister Lizzie deserved to be teased when she was little because she was cuter than I was, has led me to remember about a time back in 1979, when I was teasing Lizzie because she was cuter than I was.

    Actually, now that I think about this more carefully, “teasing Lizzie” was mom’s interpretation of what was going on. It was really something completely different. You know how sometimes we Pattersons let the hair cleanliness go a bit and we attract little fleas near our scalp. Sometimes they look like little dots flying near our head. I’ve seen them on you from time-to-time, particularly when you go through a long period of having your hair perpetually in one of those super strong hair clips.

    Well, on this particular occasion, those little fleas were bugging my sister, Lizzie. So she sat down, as I squatted behind her and reached to see if I could get some of those fleas out of her hair. We didn’t have your hair clip excuse back in those days. Mom was just not much into bathing children. It was a fear of potential drowning I expect. She would often say, “If you keep splashing that water, Michael, you’re going to drown me.” As I remember this occasion, I either wasn’t wearing any pants or I was wearing one of those pairs of pants which mom said were from the brand name “Artist too stinking lazy to draw” pants.

    Well, I decided to reach for those fleas without opening my eyes and so I accidentally grabbed one of Lizzie’s hairs and pulled it. She said, “YAAAH”. Mom was on me in an instant, grabbing me with her right hand, which as I recollect had 2 thumbs and then I reached out with my right hand, which also had 2 thumbs. Then the fleas from Lizzie’s head jumped to my head and started taunting me. Suddenly I am beginning to wonder if I am remembering this from real life or if I am remembering a dream. The physical details are starting to seem either too much like the illogical sequence of events in a dream, or the illogical sequence of events conceived by a middle-aged housewife living on the edge in Lynn Lake, Manitoba, who could care less how many thumbs a hand has.

    In any case, this dream mom said, “Michael, are you going to stop teasing Lizzie, or am I going to have to punish you?” That was a curious question. I was very tempted to ask, “Who are you? What did you do with my mom? And what is this punishment thing about which you speak?” Instead of saying that, I said, “I don’t know—what’s the punishment?” using my middle finger of my left hand to pick at my teeth, where those fleas had gotten caught. I don’t think mom got the message of that gesture. I suppose I should have said, “What is punishment?” to be clearer, but I was young then and not as well-versed at writing as I am today. Even little Lizzie seemed confused by the question of what punishment is, and she stared plaintively at mom for an explanation. Mom looked dumbfounded, as if she never expected anyone to call her on that question.

    More memories tomorrow, April. See you then….

    Michael Patterson


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