I’ve asked M to write for my blog every once in a while. Ideally, he’ll do it once a week. When he writes, the posts will go up on Fridays.
Here you go.
This is Pop’s Perspective.
A long time ago my wife looked across the dinner table to me and blurted, “You should write something for my blog.”
“Yeah!” I exclaimed, “I’d love to.”
Since that time many moons have passed.
The small one affectionately called Little Bear is no longer sleeping most of the day, his big brother, Butter, is wearing big boy underwear, and Buster Keaton is no longer the hottest thing in Hollywood.
Yeah, it’s been a while.
Now, I have a promise to keep, but the last time I wrote anything the condensation from my beer bottle ruined the cocktail napkin. So, please excuse dangling participles, run on sentences and my complete, hardheaded, over achieving, use of commas.
My oldest son is the center of the universe.
It is his “Butter-verse.”
Every little boy wants to be him and every little girl wants to play doctor with him. Every childless adult wants to discuss art and the sciences with him. Every grandparent wants to add him to their already brimming collection. Cats and dogs form single file lines to receive a ceremonious ear scratch from my son. Shopping carts knock each other out of the way to be chosen so that he may ride their bows (with one foot dangling dangerously under rolling wheels).
And he likes it this way. He loves attention, good and bad. He even seems to want more.
As for the rest of his family? We are mere accessories to compliment his existence.
I’m that old broken-in ball cap that he’d wear proudly to play with friends, comfortably to run a quick errand but never to meet up with someone he were trying to impress. My wife is the warm blanket to snuggle with on a cold night or lay on to watch a movie. His little brother, however, is that embarrassing car that goes from point A to B, but only owned because a better one is not in the budget.
This is how it is.
Last week there was a temporal shift in the “Butter-verse.” At dinner he asked politely for a glass of milk. As mommy poured the last of the gallon we had on hand he asked, “Is Little Bear going to drink milk, too?”
My wife explained to him that no, there was no more milk and Little Bear was getting water.
“Mommy,” said Butter, “maybe the Bear should get the milk. I’ll have water.”
Selfless pain-in-the-ass. no wonder we’ll do anything for him.