Last night I had the pleasure of spending the evening with some friends that I don’t normally get a chance to hang out with. We’re busy. They’re busy. And, it just so happened that our calendars fell in sync for the moment, so we thought we’d get together. One of the most treasured parts of these get togethers is hearing what will come out of their two daughter’s mouths — both are relatively young, but quite articulate.
The evening started out with a special service at their church. Both of their daughters, who as I’ve just pointed out, hadn’t seen me in a while, were quite insistent about sitting with me, not their mom. And when I say me, I don’t mean on either side. No, I mean like each one crawling into my lap. One on each leg. So, when the service starts, there are empty seats all around, and this pile of girls sitting on an guys lap — don’t think it didn’t go unnoticed. I saw how the speakers looking at me.
Were you aware that if you put two happy siblings next to one another, they can always find something to fight about? NOt an all out brawl, but more of the subtle goading and edging that escalates into mom going “shh” from the row in front. It’s the kind of thing that you feel you should have been able to control, or at least seen coming.
Each girl had new shoes, but one pair of shoes was shinier, so that made them better, and so the subtle kicking started. It may have been a game, but my shin was absorbing the full recoil of the return swing. With each girl sitting on a knee, the only way to get them to stop kicking each other was to move them out of leg distance from one another. Turns out I didn’t have the flexibility and range of motion required for that, given their leg length. It also turns out when you do the horizontal splits in church while balancing to young girls on your knees this can cause some speakers to lose track where they are. Who knew? Both girls thought this was part of some game or bouncing pony-ride and to show their approval took turns repeatedly giving me butterfly kisses on the cheek. One’s precious, two’s cute, but a deacon actually left the room and came back with a very threatening looking baseball bat.
As a quick distraction, I gave them programs to look at. The youngest one starting flipping through the program and made a brilliant connection. “It matches!” she announced loud enough for all to hear. The cover of the program was identical to a picture hanging on the wall across the room.
The elder one leaned forward and asked her mom, “When are we going to sing?” “In a bit,” was the reply. She leaned back against me to tell me her secret, “I like it when we sing, cause I’m gonna do this…” to which she wildly starts flailing her arm around, mimicking a choir director with a bad hangover conducting Flight of the Bubble Bee. This was enough to get more looks passed my way.
The youngest one, wanting to prove she trusted me even more, confessed her deepest darkest secret to me: “I just poo’d my diaper, don’t tell.” And sure enough, I noticed there was a familiar smell growing stronger.
In the Bible, the High Priest, upon entering the Holiest of Holies, would have a rope tied around his leg. If he was struck down while entering that part of the temple, at least the others could drag the corpse out, without incurring the same fate. I looked down at my unbound leg. Perhaps there was a secondary purpose, for situations like mine.
Don’t get me wrong, it was a wonderful service, and the kids were really quite well behaved. I just happened to be sitting at ground zero. My wife, who was sitting right next to me, claims she didn’t notice all this was going on. Right. That’s why she’s my wife — she knows how to turn a blind eye when needed.
The service ended, and afterward refreshments were served. Pretty much every kind of cookie known to man kind was there. There must have been some bake-off rivalry between the wifes.
The little girls ran off to get a cookie, and then another, and in the act of child like sweetness, brought me one, unprompted. I wasn’t aware that one should discuss limits at the first act of generosity. The children were thrilled to obtain acknowledgment, approval, and affection by simply fetching cookies one at a time. They seemed to have an infinite supply, which is more than I can usually eat.
Like a good family friend, instead of saying that’s enough, thank you, I did what you’d expect… I directed them to mom, just to see what would happen. I got distracted by something, because by the time I got over to mom to engage in conversation, she had four cookies in each hand, wedged between her fingers like a ninja with throwing stars on the defensive.
Now it was catch-up time, and the littlest one told me about what had happened to her since I last saw her. “I dressed up like Minnie Mouse, got randy, and my butt kicked.” It’s those kind of sentences that make you take pause.
“What?” “I got dressed up like Minnie Mouse, got candy, ‘n my but’ kick’.”
It was at this point, I wanted her to point out the kid that hurt her, and good old Uncle Walt would turn them into a smear on the pavement. Then I pondered why she might be dressing up in an outfit that would get her butt kicked. “Was this for Halloween?” “Yes!!!” she replied. -Now- we were communicating. “Did you get candy in your BUCKET?” “Yes!” she explained excitedly, “in my buttkicked.” “Buck-et.” “Ohh… bucket.” Somewhere an imaginary bully’s life just got saved.
The evening ended with going out to dinner. Since it was a big night, we were going to Red Lobster. Lobster was going to be the big meal. Problem was, when you ask for a non-smoking table of 12 at 7:PM on a Saturday night, it comes with a two and a half to three hour wait time. No wonder it was called the Last Supper, no one wanted to go out again.
So, we changed plans on the fly and went to Long Horn. They at least have lobster tails. Party of 12. Two hours.
Chinese it is.
On the drive over, I heard the older little girl lamenting. “This is the worst day of my life… I don’t get to a lobster.”
In the parking lot, I shared that amusing detail with her dad. It’s hard not to chuckle, because I remember what it was like back at that age, these kinds of things are important. Quite often, it’s not the act itself, but following through and living up to expectations.
“Tell you what,” her dad said providing comfort. “I’ll get you a lobster, and we’ll cook it at home.” The little girl’s eyes widened! “Cooooool!” Dad smiled. “You like that idea?” At this moment she decided to stake her claim: “Can -I- *K*I*L*L* it?” I can’t find the text decorations to even emphasize the delivery and emotional sense of power and satisfaction the words were said with; think of Ming the Merciless on a day where everything was going to plan. Her dad didn’t beat an eyelash, “sure.”
Dinner was wonderful, and we caught up on old times. The kids didn’t eat as much as expected; we thought at first it was because they’d stuffed themselves with cookies. Nope. We learned why as we were leaving. At the end of the table, the kids had discovered sugar packets. They thought it was pixie stick candy — that’s what they’d been eating while we were having dinner, hiding the wrappers.
This must have made for an interesting bedtime later that evening.