Let the Games Begin

“Look, Mom. He’s pecking. He’s pecking for seeds.” Puck had found a special attachment with powder blue eyes Waddles the penguin. Waddles was clearly going to be added to the Stuffed Animal Hall of Fame at a very young age.

It didn’t take Joe and Francis long to evoke the usual groans from gathered sisters and wife/sister-in-law a few hours later following Sunday morning events. If it wasn’t Francis lounging like a bathing beauty on the living room floor – something about, “Paint me. I’m a French beauty.” – it was Joe throwing himself up the basement stairs with a delicate outstretched arm, something Sistine Chapel worthy, advising all family members to avoid the basement bathroom. Temporarily condemned.

Manly hour continued with an arm-wrestling showdown between Dad and Francis over the kitchen counter. Left-handed, Dad took Fran easy. Right-handed, Fran was the man. These explosions of attempted manliness continued with Joe jumping feet-first onto Francis’ back. The circus act concluded, both boys made themselves useful with automobiles and tools in the freezing garage. Temps were dipping in the fine gray mist of a cold afternoon.

Conversations continued throughout the day. Some Catchphrase for the ladies. Dad picked up no less than six boxes of Cecil Whittaker’s for the game. Linnea brushed on some red eye shadow for her own Super Bowl party elsewhere.

“I don’t plan to watch the game,” she informed us, as she walked out the door with Oxbear’s ancient leather book bag. Funny how things get passed down through the family.

By this time, the kids were imagining Francis depositing a cheeseburger into an ATM.

“Ketchup and mustard goes flying through the slot.”

“Soda. Bloosh!”

“We really should write for Sponge Bob,” Carrie concluded.

But by this time, the Super Bowl sideshow had already started. Carrie and Rose began rating each player based on face.

“Five.”

“Ug. Negative seven.”

“Two.”

“Really? A two?”

Adoption Status Estimate: Down: 5 yrs, 5 mo.; To Go: 1 yr, 7 mos.