Short Shrift

Subtitled:  I have a second son!

Sometimes I feel like my little one gets short shrift in terms of blog time. So I present to you, my second (and please please please let him be the last) born child!  Have I told you the story of the cigar?  If anyone has read all my posts (mom) and remembers let me know.  Heck, I’ll just tell you again.  Why should you be any different for those who know me off-line.  This is my go-to story.  I lead with this one.  And I often repeat it.  I have heard many variations on, “Oh Yes, I think I remember you mentioning something about it…”, some kinder and gentler than others.  But this is one of the big family stories about my little one.

I wrote a paper in grad school about how family stories, the stories that parents choose to remember, tell and retell, teach kids what is valued.  Particularly in terms of character traits.  The family story that is most oft told about me is the one about when I was small enough to be able to stand in the middle of the driver and passenger seats in my parents old brown LTD (in those pre-carseat days).  We were headed back to the military base and my dad pulled over to give a GI a ride.  He got in the back seat, said his greeting and thanks and then pulled out a cigarette.  I put my little hand on my hip and told him, “If you light that my daddy is going to pull this car over and tell you to GET OUT!”  He put it away and we’ve been telling it ever since.  So lippy was good (if dosed out to those deserving, excluding my parents).  I’m not sure what this cigar story tells my little guy about what we appreciate about him.  He kind of reminds me of Animal from The Muppets (who was always tied for my favorite along side Miss Piggy).  Here it goes.

My son ate a cigar.  A cigar he found on the ground at the park.  It’s coming back to me, I think I did tell it.  I’ll keep it brief.  He chewed on a cigar that at the time I was sure was packed with something other than tobacco.  We called poison control, monitored him, all’s well.  But I have to stop projecting into the future.  Envisioning him with tattoos (MOM would be nice) and piercings and whatever else is the next wave of shock.  In support of this crystal ball vision is the fact that despite my son having very few spoken words , like single digit, the other day he busted out with Mohawk. It sounded like mo-hah but that’s what he was saying as he showed me the doll with the wonked out hair sticking straight up in a style that was very mohawk.

So here is my little man.  My little man that is the kind of kid that makes grandparents howl because it’s coming back at ya.  My little guy that we call Baby Vegas because he blows on his dice when he rolls for us in Backgammon.  Here he is with one of his buddies, shooting darts and rolling the dice.

Here is the theme song of both my boys:

I love you, you little scamp.