Category Archives: Mr. Boy

Don’t try this at home

Hobbling around the Rancho today with a stiff right leg, from where it was crunched yesterday between the rear bumper of my Jeep and the big brush-popper bumper on a Suburban. By all rights, the leg ought to be broken, just above the knee. Instead, it’s just bruised good and sore.

I was parked about six feet in front of the Suburban, on a slight incline across the street from Mr. Boy’s elementary school, before the kids were let out for the day. I got out and walked behind the Jeep and set off for the school. I heard a shout behind me, and turned to see the Jeep rolling backwards on an angle. It was moving slowly, so I instantly decided I could stop it and got behind it and started pushing. Can’t be done. Three thousand pounds of car can’t be stopped, except by Superman. Maybe that’s who I thought I was.

Meanwhile, the Dad who shouted got the Jeep’s door open and pulled up the parking brake. Just as the Jeep’s rear bumper slowly, inexorably, pushed my right leg against the Suburban’s bumper. Hurt like hell. I yelled. Moms there for pickup came running. Do you need 911? No, seemed okay, I could walk. Still can, it’s  just sore. Next time, I’ve firmly decided, I will just watch the crash.

Instaflop

Getting linked by Instapundit is supposed to be the sine qua non of free blogger publicity, producing a fabled Instalanche (Insta plus avalanche) of hundreds if not thousands of new unique visits. So imagine my surprise when my first such link, at about 5:45 a.m. today had, by just a few minutes ago, failed to produce one fifth of one hundred. Yep. Only fifteen, according to Sitemeter. There could be a few more which, for some reason unknown to me, failed to get listed as referrals by Sitemeter. After all, I did collect thirty-eight visits altogether, which is almost four times my normal daily average. But most of them came from people clicking on comments I had left on other blogs in the past few days, or the six three blogs which blogroll me, or referrals from Google searches on various subjects. Fourteen were counted as unknown referrals, a few of them daily constant readers plus some others checking in weekly, or whatever. Not that I am not grateful to be linked by Professor Reynolds (I am, I am), just puzzled at how far off the predicted result has been. Maybe it will improve overnight. I can’t stick around to find out, as must arise early to get Mr. Boy to school. Mom, who usually takes him mornings, is away, traveling on business.

UPDATE  And the overnight total? Wait for it. Two. 

Books vs movies

Sam and Frodo are treking across the fumes and sinks of Mordor in the last few leagues to Mt. Doom, and Mr. Boy and I are accompanying them for his second time and my, uh, sixth, I think. I am struck again by the depth of Sam’s tenderness for ring-burdened Frodo. Post-movie in my case, and recalling reading elsewhere that what little of it there was in the movie raised questions about Sam’s sexual preferences. Despite Rosie Cotton waiting at home. In the book, where it comes up every few paragraphs, it seems like brotherly affection, or perhaps kindly servant and beloved master, and the criticism seems petty. Mr. B. soaks it all up, transfixed by Tolkien’s careful descriptions of the terrain and the weather and the orc armies and the power of the eye, momentarily distracted, although it might also be the sound of my voice reading aloud. Much as I liked the movie and plan to watch it with him one of these days, I’ll put it off as long as possible, so the words continue a while longer to build pictures in his mind, pictures unconstrained by the movie images, let alone, for now, the adult preoccupations. His interest in Narnia, for instance, profound when it was on the page, diminished significantly after seeing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It wasn’t a bad movie. It’s just too confining.

Now the leaves are falling fast…

Leaf blowers and vacuums are big business and for years I resisted their allure. Sort of like weed eaters, which I thought were also a phony. All they do is cut the tops off weeds, which then grow back a few days later and you’re back out in the yard with the "weed eater" cutting the tops off all the weeds all over again. Leaf blowers and vacs, I figured, might save your back from raking and bending to lift leaves into a barrel, but at the cost of damaging your eardrums with their high-pitched whine. I forgot to factor in the vibrations which leave your arms tingling for an hour afterwards, the inevitable cloggings of small sticks among the leaves that must be cleared, and the way the cord wraps around your ankles as you move along if you use an electric one. I know them now because I have one of the things–thanks to a newspaper ad that Mr. Boy and I separately chanced upon. Mr. B., like other  kids, just likes to buy things. The leaf blower and vac appealed to his innate consumer. Having developed minor back problems, the item finally appealed to me. Just like I have a weed eater now, as well. The weed eater actually works best for trimming grass around the rock perimeter of flower beds, instead of getting on your knees to snip it off by hand. The leaf blower and vac I am less sure about. But one thing I know. It has, somehow, inspired Mr. B. to yard work. Whereas trying to interest him in raking leaves when he was four was a no-go, he now, at age six, actually suggests that we go rake leaves. He doesn’t like the loud noise of the working leaf blower and vac, but he nevertheless finds some enjoyment in watching the piles of leaves disappear into the black-plastic maw of the thing. It’s a benefit the manufacturers might consider for their advertising. Interest your child in yard work: Buy a leaf blower and vac.

Finger-sucking solution

Mr. Boy went to bed irritable because of the extract of cactus painted on the fingernails of his two sucking fingers. Nibble No More is the name of the stuff provided by his dentist this afternoon for the nail painting. All in the interest of ending his finger sucking to straightenhis bite before his permanent teeth start coming in. The stuff–which tastes unpleasantly sour–is billed as a solution to nail biting. I don’t doubt it. It’s sad, in a way, because he’s leaving one more vestige of babyhood behind. Will this also be the end of Miss El? He usually holds her while sucking his fingers. I didn’t see him with her once all afternoon. Passages.

UPDATE  In the middle of the night we hear a cry from Mr. B.’s bedroom followed by: "I feel like I’m going to throw up." His fingers had gravitated to his mouth in his sleep.

Campin’ with the Tiger Cubs II

Self-inflating air matresses are not. At least not enough for an adult past sixty to ever get comfortable sleeping on the ground. I became aware of bones I didn’t know I had. I doubt if I slept twenty minutes at a stretch. Next time it’s a real air mattress or a cot. Or both.

It would also help to go to a park that wasn’t so close to the Austin airport. McKinney Falls (falls rather small) is a nice place and it’s very handy, but it’s close enough to a subdivision to hear police and/or medical-rescue helicopters traversing the sky throughout the night. Also sounds of a nearby highway, and, of course, Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, although the big jets pretty much cease after midnight. They sound like giant vaccuum cleaners from under the trees.

Mr. Boy, however, pronounced it all good, his first camping trip as a Cub Scout–especially the open fires, roaming through the woods and the s’mores. He ate two, after he was reconciled to eating the first marshmellow despite it’s having "turned brown" over the fire. 

Campin’ with the Tiger Cubs

Six-year-old camper (who has fallen off his scooter once already on the trail and is now tired of scooting): Whining, crying, insisting he has to turn back to camp.

Adult chaperone (who offers to carry his scooter): Don’t you like camping?

Six-year-old camper: No.

Adult chaperone: What would you rather be doing?

Six-year-old camper: I’d rather be at home lying on the couch watching tv.