Good Morning Gentle Readers,
Just a few weeks ago, Numero Uno Son plopped into our world. He was born blue, so there wasn't no bonding taking place on his Ma's tummy. Like litmus paper dipped in a beaker of vinegar, he turned pink on the cold stainless steel O2 table across the delivery room. Today, he's seventeen and next week he starts his senior year in HS.
His interests lie in the manly arts: Wood. Steel. Fishing. Firearms. Boating. Competitive video games. And his GPA warrants the AAA discount.
His hand-made Metallica table earned him 94 points, a couple of blue ribbons, and a division winning trophy in the county-wide competition this past spring.
As I write this, my office, which lies between Jake's bedroom and The House Blond's bedroom, is littered with sleeping bodies, empty Pepsi cans, and computer equipment. Nobody is snoring, so the occasional shout-out from somebody's phone gives me a startle. DROID(!) Nobody stirs.
Jake's birthday party ends up a three day extravaganza of gaming, BBQ, and tom foolery. By day's end there should be some seventeen kids here at the Casa and I'm Fat Clemenza, cooking spaghetti for twenty guys who went to the mattresses.
BRINGING JAKE HOME
Like a dork, I bought this child seat designed for an obese ten year old. Keep in mind that Californicate is way ahead of the Nanny Curve, so even back then the hospital had been pressed into service by the social polezei and the child welfare department. Their job? Walk the baby out the glass doors and carefully strap him into the awaiting child safety seat. After that little Candy Striper saw the size of the car seat and finished with her brain hemorrhage (stern lecture followed) there was a group conference to determine if we would be allowed to depart with our child.
Shut up you idiots (on the inside). I50 million of us rode home from the hospital in the front seat with our mother's arms wrapped around us. Before that babies were born at home under less than ideal conditions (boil some water and bring me some clean linens, Harriet).
TWC's favorite aunt and uncle with his favorite son. 1997.
TWC 🍷Photo Credit (unless otherwise noted): ©TWC, all rights reserved