Son #1 stopped playing for a brief second tonight and started counting.
He can count to thirteen, but after that, it’s a little dicey, “Thirteen, sixteen, twenty, ninety, eighty, seventy-one, forty, twenty, sixteen, eleven, and five.”
“Son #1, do you know that after you count to ten, it starts with one again?”
“Okay.”
“So after ten, we say, ‘eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,’” I hold up each finger, one by one, to demonstrate.
After I finished, I asked, ”Does that make sense now, son?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He’s only three. What did I expect?
He didn’t want me to explain anything. He just wanted to count to thirteen and then somersault off the couch.
I’ll leave the schooling to momma.
Son #2 likes when I break out my ole trusty laptop. He imitates me all the time. Tonight, we played farm animal bingo; I laid down on my stomach to play on the floor. So did he. I turned on my side and leaned on one arm. He attempted the same.
When I write, he will stand by the chair and try to tap on the keys like me. It was cute at first. But after he deleted five-hundred words, the cuteness faded.
He did the same thing as I was writing this post. I told him no, but he looked at me with a face that said, “Hey, mister, I give you most of your material. I can tap on a key or two if I jolly well please. Thank you very much.”
I grabbed his hand and told him no again. But one of these days, I will leave in all the changes he makes when he does this. It might be unreadable, but it will be my most interesting post.
I don’t know if this happens to any other fathers, but there are times I’m talking to Son #2, and Son #1 thinks I’m talking to him. Son #1 will be across the room minding his business, and I’ll tell Son #2 no. Son #1 will start moaning and whining and asking me why I told him no.
The first time this happened, I was so confused. I looked bewildered.
As I was telling Son #2 to stop editing my writing, Son #1 started pouting and crying. He came over to me.
“Daddy, why did you not tell me and him to not stop playing?”
I looked at him. “What?” I exhaled incredulously.
More pouting. “Why did, did, did you to tell me and him to not stop playing?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He collapsed on the floor. “I don’t want to stop playing!”
“Then go play.”
“But, but, but you said to not.”
“When?”
“You said it to him and me.”
“I didn’t say anything to you about anything.”
He lifted his shoulders as high as he could, then forced them down as low as he could.
“Yes, you did.” He groaned, exasperated.
We finally got on the same wavelength. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him. I want him to stop typing on my laptop.”
He smiled, “Oh, okay.” Then he skipped away to play.
THEN My Son #2 jauja a da[ DHNL. n
CAME OVER AND TYPED ON MY hpHUdkn
laptop keys again.
That little scoundrel.
to the dads,
– Caleb
caneymountainblog.com 