Thinking, Choreographed

Finn lost his Heat Blast, a Ben 10 character that apparently is really hot, in that literal way that things are metaphorically hot. You know, flame-wise.

I don't know anything about him. Or Ben 10. Or the cartoon they rode in on. I just know when my kid throws a fit at Toys By Us (as he calls hit) over some figure that morphs into a flashlight that I have to shell out the $4.99 to shut him up. Finn yells very loudly. And sometimes he will kick. Or bust a vein. And these days, we're all about keeping veins and arteries and such in their proper place.

So Heat Blast was AWOL. We looked, half-ass diligently yet very messily, all over the house. And couldn't find nary a trail. Apparently, his heat leaves no evidence or wake of its discharged energy, contrary to the second law of thermodynamics. Heat Blast is uncharted, off the map, leaves a very small carbon footprint.

Which got us--me and Finn--to thinking about where he could possible have gotten himself to. And got us to talking about our preferred methods and accompanying gestures of thinking.

For me, I prefer to sit still, perhaps with an alcoholic beverage, and stroke thumb and index finger across the point of my chin. Or I might place my index and middle finger underneath my lower lip. As long as that doesn't interfere with my beer.

Finn, though, chastised me. That's not the way it's done, he said. True thinking is done by tapping the index finger against the temple, sans beverage, while saying, "Now, where did I see Heat Blast last?" Over and over and over again. The kid is all about the mantra. As stated, aforementioned kid is persistent.

And that may very well be true thinking. Maybe, but not productive or necessarily accurate thinking. Because I found Heat Blast. Right where I tossed him about a month ago. In our trunk. I rescued him and was gleefully proclaimed heroic in my finding efforts.

But, Finn was careful to mention, I still "think" wrong.

Because the World Spins a Little More Thoroughly When KiKi's Got the Wheel

Last night, Aunt Kiki gave Finn her first bath. Well, she's had baths before, and she generally smells quite nice. And Finn, of course, has had baths before, and he occasionally smells quite nice. But Kiki has never given Finn a bath. Ergo, the firstiness.

I started the bath water at 8:30 p.m. (note the time), with the full intention of giving my kid his bath. But when he demanded those services of KiKi, I reluctantly (and yet with a speed that would impress even Wally West) handed over the reins to this most cherished duty and ran to take full advantage of this pocket of rare time.

I cleaned.

(Hey, I heard that. A little quieter with your your disapproval, please. I'm trying to write here.)

The bath could've gone a lot of ways. You see, Finn is an unpredictable taker of the baths. He prefers, for example, to be a splasher, not a splashee, and if any trace of tear-inducing or even tear-free shampoo or really even just water shimmies near his eye, he will scream. And I use scream in that blood-curdling-thrice-the-force-of-the-Wilhelm scream-to-which-chocolate-must-be- administered-immediately sense. It could've happened. And if Finn screamed, odds are good KiKi would scream back and then I would be out of chocolate and that is simply no good.

But, we must be honest. Finn really wasn't our concern.

You see, I've had my eye on Aunt KiKi. She's been helping me hold down the fort this past week (and as of yesterday, quite literally, as a 20 ft. blanket and couch-pillow fort took over our living room). I've seen her sneak peeks at Finn's toy dinosaur eggs, glee-ing out at every crack. I've heard tales of their Monster game, where Finn chases her (the monster) with his toy chainsaw, for something like 45 minutes. I've witnessed her roll-race down our grassy hill. I was there when she made Finn and his blanket into at least six pizzas, five burritos, and one cream puff. And I've seen her fall prey to the manipulations of a four year who'd rather play with her than take his nap. (Sure, she apologized, but she wasn't winning any awards for that performance.)

So Finn really wasn't the one to worry about. KiKi really takes her godma role seriously, in that very unserious chase-the-blanket-turned-into-a-tail way that gets Finn's supergiggles going.

But since I didn't hear any screams from either boy or aunt, I just kept going, changing the sheets on the bed, putting the laundry away, dusting the lamps, mopping the bedroom and hallway hard woods, cleaning baseboards, re-alpha'ing our 400-volume library, regrouting the tile, detailing our car.

Wait a minute. What were they doing in there?

And that's when I finally looked at the clock. It was 9:20. Almost a full and quite pruny hour of bathing--for Finn and KiKi's jeans alike. And where I sincerely doubt my son was irreparably damaged by such a thorough "cleaning," I do wonder if KiKi will ever be the same. If her sparkly eyes and bubbly giggle were any indication, I don’t think she’ll mind.

(Although she may have permanently de-aged about 20 years.)

Pock That!

Every year (well, the past two years), we trek over to Kansas to celebrate Easter Saturday. And every year (again, just two), we dig out the plastic eggs, fill them with sugar, and drop them in our friends' yard to the joy and ferocity of youth. And every year (count 'em, one, two, stop), we engage in the age-old (much more than two) tradition of Egg Pocking.

Yes. Egg Pocking.

When we joined this tradition, we had no idea what the h-e-double-g pocking was. Barry and I come from the lofty traditions of egg rolling, something involving eggsand spoons, egg-smashing-on-heads, egg eating, egg deviling, egg fertilizing (not a public sport, but you should've seen the typo I had on that).

But what and whence the pock?

The pock starts with a NCAA-styled playoff chart (and if you know me, you know I love charts, which means that pocking must be a good recreational fit): opponents listed down the side, inwardly cascading playoff matches, to a final four, and dynamic duel (I know, I made that up), to an exuberant win.

I suppose it doesn't have to start with a chart, per se. That could just be my reading. It could just as easily start with the bowl of hard-boiled eggs.

Each pocker, then takes an egg from said bowl, holds it like you would a fat dart, faces off against an opponent, and then taps or smashes the egg into the opponent's egg in an attempt to pock it, or avoid pocking it.



(Is "pocking" the act of trying to pock or being pocked? This is where I lose the thread.)

Nonetheless, the objective: to be the last uncracked egg standing. In a weird and inexplicable play of physics, only one egg will be pocked in any egg-to-egg standoff. (Yes, you're right. In completely explicable play of physics, eggs can't stand. It's a figure of speech, folks.)

If you're lucky, you'll make it through the rounds to stand Egg Supreme, and maybe, if your hosts are generous, you'll win something like this.



Which now adorns our buffet because, yes, our offspring matched youthful ferocity with wisdom and skill to rock the pock.

And if you're really lucky, you'll have a Harry in the game. You know, so you can call him Harry Pocker. (Oh yes, I did.)

We are that lucky.