Where Hemlines and Water Balloons Belong

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What’s wrong with this picture?

This morning we watched Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer, and Gbot identified what is wrong with the doll on the Island of Misfit Toys:  “Her dress is too short.” Mbot heartily agreed. “It is definitely way too short,” repeated Gbot.

I gave thanks that my two boys know that a crotch-skimming skirt is unacceptable attire, even for a toy.

Also thankful that yesterday I caught them while they were not very sneakily sneaking a giant water balloon into their bedroom closet. They had named the translucent green, five-pound blob Georgie the First. With bated breath, I gingerly conveyed Georgie out the front door, explaining that the natural habitat of water balloons is OUTSIDE. Hemlines do not belong at the hip, water balloons do not belong in the closet.

Also thankful I had the wits to inquire if there were Georgies the Second and Third.

And that Georgie the Fourth (the runt) survived the drive to the speech therapist’s office in Mbot’s pocket.

And that I live with people who name water balloons.

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

 

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Swabbing Santa’s Cup

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At right, the Christmas List Launcher.

It’s been two and a half years. So much has happened since I last showed up here that I’ve retitled my URL “superherounderpantsandbeyond.”

And beyond…..The bots no longer wear superhero underpants. They’ve moved onto Skylanders Swapforce and Angry Birds (Gbot) and penguin prints (Mbot) with a silly little button over the silly little pocket in front. In spite of Husbot’s warning about the fragility of the bedroom fan, the underpants frequently fly like superheroes, launched gracefully into the air by the velocity of the fan blades from which they are regularly hung like baubles on a Christmas tree. It’s one of the bots’ favorite ambushes. At least, by now, both bots have proven they can stand on the top rung of the bunk bed ladder to position the ammunition without breaking an arm. Although the post-superherounderpants world has survived a broken arm.

Last night from the bottom bunk, Mbot announced a plan to find out who Santa is. I was surprised to hear him musing about it, because, well, Santa is Santa. “I know!” he explained from the bottom bunk. “We’ll put out cookies and milk for Santa, and then in the morning, swab the edge of the cup and test the DNA.”

While Mbot was plotting, Gbot’s eyelids were drooping up in the top bunk, where his dark head rested against a double-roll of paper–his and Mbot’s latest Christmas lists–which was poised delicately on his Angry Birds launcher, ready “to shoot into Santa’s hand.”

It was the Bunk Bed of the Eternal Paradox: On the top, we need a great unknown to believe in. On the bottom, we need a mystery to solve. And through the air, a rain of underpants, because we need to reach beyond ourselves, and to laugh.

I’ve missed sharing the laughter I found in this space, to reach beyond myself and connect. So glad I can do it without launching my underpants at you.