Greetings Ty-keteers! My gosh, how long has it been?
Snoots and I laid low for most of August, and agreed not to bother you with the mundane details of our thrilling lifestyle(s). It was kind of a downer of a month, frankly, and the two most noteworthy (in this blog’s frame of reference, at least) episodes,
1. The Beer Burglars exit from the BWCS playoffs. In their rematch with the hated Whammies, the Burglars watched helplessly as the villains went berserk in the top of the first inning, scoring not one, not two, but nine runs, effectively ending the game before a Burglar had so much as grabbed a bat; and
2. My most recent trip to Foxwoods, the only “highlight” of which occured when I was 4 or 5 hours in and had won a mere two pots. As I got my cards, someone at the table called for a misdeal and sure enough, I turned over two aces,
didn’t seem like good-timey journalism to us.
We did (and now I mean the Royal, dogless “We”) go down to Wrightsville Beach for the Mathers’ yearly Beach Week. Which meant one thing: MUNCHKINFEST. My niece, Wynne, would be there, and I would have a front-row seat for SEVEN DAYS. First, the pictures. A quick note: this kid is 17 months old, and HUGE. Ninety-ninth percentile huge. And CUTE. Hundredth percentile cute.
In that bottom picture, she’s just done one of the things that make me want to squeeze her to death and bite off her glorious little cheeks: when I sit down on the floor with my legs straight out — as I frequently do, for standing sucks — she’ll sit down in the V of my legs, with her back to me, legs out, and just hang loose.
Munchkin’s other criminally adorable feature was was the way she greeted me every morning. I would groggily reach the bottom of the stairs, and she would walk across the room and hug my knees. My God. And then, as if that weren’t enough, I would go to the fridge and there would be a big glass of cold coffee ready and waiting for me. So a huge SNOOTY SHOUT-OUT to Dad for putting that bad boy in there after every morning’s coffee brew!
As I mentioned, Munch is huge. And physically dominating. Apparently, Brad and Linsey get more than a few remarks from strangers wondering if Wynne is moderately retarded or something — because she is the size of a baby much, much older than her. (!) In any case, I’m saying it now: Wynne Mathers will be the first Caucasian woman to dunk. You heard it here first.
I’ll stop gushing about my niece, lest this get really sentimental and awful, and segue (rather effortlessly, you’d have to agree) to my East Coast Goddaughter, Clara. Cut to Friday. Wilmington, NC airport. Stu texts me and we work out a trade: he picks me up at Logan, I babysit Clara that night. Done and done. Sucker.
So Clara and I have a ball. When things are winding down and I’m changing her, I start singing an impromptu song about pooping your pants to calm/distract her (the last time I changed Clara, she had a rash and it was really tough). When that song came to its merciful end, not only did she applaud me, but she said “more” (and those who have heard me sing will tell you that that was a first). So that led to a three song setlist that included the Beatles’ “Oh Darling” and Pavement’s “Trigger Cut.”
Everything goes swimmingly, we do a bedtime story, I drop her in the crib, and miraculously, she grabs her pacifier and goes right to sleep. Swish! As I leave the room, I forget to take my Oxford shirt (which I had worn on the plane and taken off during playtime) off the railing of her crib.
Cut to three hours later. The Chaffee living room. They get home, we shoot the shit. Dana goes in to visit Clara and comes back out with my Oxford shirt. I put it on and bid them good evening. As I’m waiting for the elevator, I reach for the cigarettes in my shirt’s breast pocket and… feel nothing.
I go back in, describe the situation, and make the horrifying walk into Clara’s room with Dana. We peer over the edge of the crib and… sure enough, roughly fifteen cigarettes are in Clara’s crib.
Now don’t get me wrong, kids: smoking is cool. But man, it was most definitely not cool at that particular point in the time-space continuum, let me tell you.
To Clara’s credit, though, she had only broken two of them.