Ahh, fall. If it weren't for that smug look on Martha Stewart's face whenever she tries to get me to make pumpkin spiced ... everything, it'd be my favorite season. The kids are back in school, baby calves are hitting the ground, and the layer of Halloween candy blubber I put on is easily disguised by a terrible beard and heavy vests.
As the daughter of two English majors, Dylan is following her nerdy parents' footsteps. Along with baby calves and fuzzy cats, she loves reading and writing. I've caught her, more than once, standing at her bedside, reading a dictionary. She reads to her brother at night, and whenever I'm on the computer, she tries to read everything that pops up. When I wanted to figure out what Elmer Fudd's daughter was trying to sing in "All About That Bass," she tried to read along. "It's aww about dat bass, no tweble." "What's it mean?" she asked. Nobody knows.
And when Dylan's not reading, she loves to write essays about the cool things she's done, like cow feeding and buck hunting. She was my official "meat package marker," for a buck that I processed. I let her have free-rein on the butcher paper, so the packages are marked in second-grade phonics (Rost. Meet), with drawings of flowers and rainbows. It'll make dinner prep a lot more exciting.
Grady seems to be in school mostly for the social aspect. Kindergarten has been awesome for him and every day is a big party. This year was his first for soccer. Somehow, the Tigers ended up with the fewest number of players, and since it's a team of four and five-year olds, those players are often drifting on and off the field during the match. The games I saw looked like cute versions of the movie 300, with a small handful of kids in orange getting overwhelmed by hoards of opposing players.
Here's something I probably shouldn't tell you, but I will anyway. We have a bidet. No, not in the "fancy French separate appliance that's 60 feet from the toilet" way, but in the "attached to the toilet, utilitarian, Brasilian" way. And here's why I'm telling you: 1) it's awesome, go get one. It's better than sliding up the the jacuzzi jets at the Hilton's spa, and 2) it's not a toy. Our kids know the latter well. In fact, I've cranked it on when they've sat on our toilet (for laughs), and they hate it. The look on their faces alone is worth getting one. But say you have a few five-year old boys over at your house for a post-season soccer party. That knob on the side of toilet? Yeah, it's a fountain machine. And, after our end-of-year soccer party, Regina came out of our bathroom with a horrified look on her face. She told me that little boys are disgusting creatures and have terrible aim when they pee. I investigated. It wasn't a misdirected stream that soaked our tile floor, but a bidet that must have put on a water show that rivaled the Bellagio's in Vegas.
As long as Regina and I can raid the kids' Halloween bags and listen to the soothing sounds of a child reading a dictionary, we'll cozy up to the fire and enjoy the season. And if you happen to swing by the Eastside, pause in front of our house, every fifteen minutes we have a spectacular water show.