My son Martin is still learning to grasp the concepts of you and me . . .
Tag: Terrible Twosdays
The tractor-trailer lay dead, an overturned behemoth in the roadside brush, its refrigerated guts split open and littering the highway with frozen wolf carcasses . . .
Every day at 3:15 p.m. my son and I walk two blocks to pick his sister up from kindergarten. Every day he has a fit, a small tantrum, or decides to become sixteen months old and needs to be held the few blocks to school . . .
As a father, I don’t believe I have yet had my finest hour—and as a father of four little girls, I doubt I ever will. It’s not that I haven’t gently wiped away a tear or two, or bandaged a skinned knee, or made my share of macaroni and cheese and peanut butter sandwiches. I have. But it’s out in public where I mostly fall down . . .
Rule 1.17 Athletic Supporter & Catching Gear Requirements:
All male players must wear athletic supporters; metal, fiber, or plastic type cups are acceptable. Cups must be worn at all times and not removed during breaks or between innings . . .
“Will you stop swearing?” yelled the father . . .
All InTur would rent them was a Lada. Carlos was struggling with a sticky clutch when the tunnel’s sickening yellow glow exploded into the hostile glare of a Havana afternoon . . .
“The kids are full of sugar,” Martin’s teacher announces at pickup time. “They had cupcakes for Kyle’s birthday.”
I suppose this explains why my son and his toddler cohorts are roadrunning around the classroom and catapulting off the low leather couches . . .