The house in South Carolina had giant porches that spanned the first and second floors and overlooked the dunes and ocean. We left the sliding doors open so Jake and the dogs could come and go as they pleased because it was easier than getting off our fat rear ends and letting them out every ten seconds. We were on vaca, dammit.
The dogs barked at the big blackbirds while Jake ran around flapping his arms screaming "biwds! tweet! tweet! my wings! tweet! tweet!" and when they got tired they all ate dogfood.
Jake ran from side to side of the deck sticking his arms between the rails and screaming "hi bacation! hi biatch!" at absolutely no one because absolutely no one was around but us.
Jake sat on the big lounge chairs with his head tilted at the sky and pretended like his life was so hard that he needed a break. The hardest thing he did all weekend was convince himself not to cry whenever he saw a bug.
"A bug! I skeered! I cry! I no cry. Its okay."
"A bubblefwy! Ahhh. Is beau-a-full. I no cry at bubblefwies."
"A spidah! I cry! Is cucky. No toucha spidah."
Someone is teaching this kid about the creepies of nature. No 20 month old child knows that bubblefwies is beau-a-full and spidahs is cucky unless someone tells them that. He's totally obsessed with bugs lately and everything small and dark are bugs.
Maybe instead of an engineer he will be an entomologist. If you want to piss Dave off next time you see him use the word "mechanic" instead of engineer and "exterminator" instead of entomologist. He loves it when you limit Jake's future to fields that you enter through correspondence courses.
Do you want to make more money? Sure! We all do.
Jake spent a lot of time counting steps as he walked up and down them and we let him do it all by himself because there were only three and if he fell there wouldn't be too much blood. Oh, and if you think it's bad that he calls the beach "biatch" you should hear how he says "count". Kinda like he drops the "r" in shirt and the "l" in clock he totally leaves out the "o" in count. Kids are so effing adorable. They should talk all the time, mostly in public places like churches and synagogues.
When the temps dropped to a ghastly 65 and we old people couldn't take the chill the doors were closed and Jake would blink real big and say "I go outside? Witta doggies?" and blink real big again and I couldn't help but get out from under the blanket to let the three monsters out.
Someone should've had the foresight to take a picture of all the nose, hand, and paw prints on the door.
I was afraid Jake would freak when we got home and his outside time dropped off to near zero, but he seems to be okay with it. Maybe all this was the motivation we need to get our backyard repaved.
Yes, repaved. My backyard is essentially a concrete pit. I've never mowed a lawn in my entire life, and I can probably count on my hands the number of times that I've raked. Yard work is a foreign concept to me. I can't imagine having that task added to my list of home chores. I can hardly get the inside stuff done.
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Zane used to say clock the same way.
If you can avoid adding yard work to your list than by all means do. It's not very exciting. But I guess the pay off is worth it. Since our city parks pretty much suck we have to rely on our own backyard.
Oh there are so many funny ones that way. I heard of one little girl who used to say "horrey" instead of "horsey," so it turned into "my grandpa has a horrey." Then when they get older and learn to rhyme, don't play the rhyme game with "truck."
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