Sarcasm: The Lost Art
"Ryan, where is your napkin?", I ask for the third time tonight, knowing the answer.
"On the floor," comes his earnest reply.
"Blow me down."
So of course, *whooosh* comes the puff of air from Ryan's side of the table.
We've been the Sick Family Robinson this week, with Ryan needing cough medicine at 4:13 this morning, Erin, with her low-register, throaty wail from the crib sounding like a cross between Bette Davis and a giraffe giving birth, and Ainsley with the nonmedicatable sinus/chest/face/nose/inseam/everything cold. Even I have succumbed, but at least I can take some Bennadryl. Which, for some reason, Ainsley doesn't like hearing.
In fact, Erin was looking like she was feeling a lot better today, so Ainsley found the time to teach her how to find everyone's nose. "Where's Daddy's Nose?" *Honk* comes the little gripper. "Where's Erin's nose?" *Oh look a picture of some flowers on the computer*, her finger and expression seems to say.
We'll work on it.
It's just wonderful that we've reached the stage of actual communication with our daughter. Her 'more' is phenomenal, and she can identify the hell out of a dog. She just seems to be understanding more and more each day. Plus she can pull off her own socks on the changing table, as she grins and hands them to me so I can drop them on her face with accompanying bomb whistle.
It's a guy thing.
I'm also getting to experience the heart-melting two-pronged attack of the "Daddy's Home" twins, with Ryan running over and asking how my day was, and Erin patpatpatpatting behind on all fours like a miniature charging rhino, readily tugging up my pantlegs, a gaze to the sky.
"Up?" I always ask.
And up, yes please, go the arms.
"On the floor," comes his earnest reply.
"Blow me down."
So of course, *whooosh* comes the puff of air from Ryan's side of the table.
We've been the Sick Family Robinson this week, with Ryan needing cough medicine at 4:13 this morning, Erin, with her low-register, throaty wail from the crib sounding like a cross between Bette Davis and a giraffe giving birth, and Ainsley with the nonmedicatable sinus/chest/face/nose/inseam/everything cold. Even I have succumbed, but at least I can take some Bennadryl. Which, for some reason, Ainsley doesn't like hearing.
In fact, Erin was looking like she was feeling a lot better today, so Ainsley found the time to teach her how to find everyone's nose. "Where's Daddy's Nose?" *Honk* comes the little gripper. "Where's Erin's nose?" *Oh look a picture of some flowers on the computer*, her finger and expression seems to say.
We'll work on it.
It's just wonderful that we've reached the stage of actual communication with our daughter. Her 'more' is phenomenal, and she can identify the hell out of a dog. She just seems to be understanding more and more each day. Plus she can pull off her own socks on the changing table, as she grins and hands them to me so I can drop them on her face with accompanying bomb whistle.
It's a guy thing.
I'm also getting to experience the heart-melting two-pronged attack of the "Daddy's Home" twins, with Ryan running over and asking how my day was, and Erin patpatpatpatting behind on all fours like a miniature charging rhino, readily tugging up my pantlegs, a gaze to the sky.
"Up?" I always ask.
And up, yes please, go the arms.
posted by Dan at 10:00 PM
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