Abu Ghraib All Over Again

I submit these shocking videos for your consideration:

I'm certain to be called in for a Senate hearing on the question of whether tickling is considered torture. My vote: yes.

We've lost too many good men to this method.

A Genetic Love of Books

Proof that genetics rules us all:

In Singles or Pairs

Porter's first interaction with a Slinky was totally unexpected. The things this kid finds joy in, and which then translate to us as you can tell from my goofy grin and repeat showings of the Slinky's powers:

Mommy First

In all things there must be balance.

Porter said, "Dadadadada" first.

This morning, when he started screaming (He never cries. Never, never, never, never, never. He doesn't like to waste time when he can scream.) I rushed to him, scooped him out of bed, and began to change him. Even his onesie was wet. Lil came in to help, because Porter kept screaming. He does this until all wrongs are righted, and America's children can all read.

He screams a lot.

As soon as we had him changed and dry, I picked him up, but he saw mom was there and leaned out of my arms, into her, rested his head on her shoulder, and immediately went back to sleep.

Yeah. Thanks little buddy. We'll see how this pans out when you want a pony!

No Mr. Bond, I Expect You To Die!

I picture my son from the neck down, sitting in an overstuffed leather armchair I've never noticed before, a white cat on his lap. Like the armchair, stuffed, of course. He’s an infant after all.

Gently, he strokes the fur, and then his voice:

“So, Mr. Dad, we meet again.”

My son is an evil mastermind of Blofeld proportions. His vicious enmity is not in the form of world domination, but he’s young. He’ll get there. No, he rules his SPECTRE-like organization with a cunning that belies both his age and his giggle when you blow zerbits on his belly. His aim: the complete and utter loss of parental sanity through sleep-depravation.

You may have read the report that his reign of terror ended some time ago.

The reports of that demise have been greatly exaggerated. He took a brief hiatus, then returned with renewed vim and vigor, a more penetrating scream, and tears that could melt a Terminator’s non-existent heart.

Yes, he’s that good.

So, this morning, as I staggered into his room, he sat in the yellow cone his nightlight carefully angled to hide his grinning, bald head. My hand stumbled awkwardly toward my Walther PPK in the form of a bottle. He was unmoved by this threat.

“Surrender, I’ve already won,” he told me, with a cruel laugh.

“No,” I said, my resolve was shaky. “I’ll never join you!”

“And yet you are here.”

“Hah! That’s where you’re wrong,” and now it was my turn for a laugh, even though you shouldn’t laugh at your children.

His petting of the stuffed cat stopped.

“How so?”

“This is just a dream. If it were real, you wouldn’t be talking.”

“Oh.”

*vanishes in a poof of Adamsian logic*

Porter's First Novel

Yes, the reports are true. My son, in addition to being a runner, volleyball player, scientist, speaker of at least three foriegn languages (Zombie, Dolphin, and Hypersonic), and rock-climber, is now becoming a writer.

Witness the awesome might of this fully-armed and operational Great American Author.

$5 Million Dollars Later

Turns out a cheap plastic plate is all it takes to entertain my son.

You might have to turn up your volume.