Kids Keep Grass from Growing Under Feet

The grass on the knoll behind The Fab Four’s house may not have long for this world, but that’s a good thing, in my book. It shows that Melissa and Skip have their priorities straight.
Oh, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t as green as anybody else on the block: They recycle and conserve whenever possible. But with rambunctious lads of 7, 5 and 2-3, they know it’s important to get outside and exercise and just be boys. (By the way, the 2-3 age is Luke’s reaction to his recent third birthday — could be his feminine side just won’t let him let go of his youth, so he says he’s two-three.)
That exercise is good for building strong bodies eight ways, as Wonder Bread used to trumpet. If that jolts people who thought it’s TWELVE ways, here’s some Wonderful history: In the 1950s, Wonder was one of the sponsors of “Howdy Doody,” which used to start the show with Buffalo Bob posing this question to the kids in the Peanut Gallery: “Hey, kids, what time is it?”
Well, let’s check vintage footage:



Bob seemed to try to buffalo the kids because he quizzed them on nutrition, too, before answering: "Wonder Bread builds strong bodies eight ways. Look for the red, yellow and blue balloons printed on the wrapper.”
Within a decade, though, the company had expanded its nutritional hype to 12 ways. I’m not sure how many ways it builds strong bodies these days, but it’s still got red, yellow and blue balloons.
I tried to find footage of Buffalo in a Wonder commercial, but the closest I came was a Tootsie Roll Pop commercial. I’ll justify using it here because Tootsie Rolls are one of Luke’s favorite candies, and he’ll eat a Pop, too, if you twist his arm.



I guess I Grandpa got nostalgic ’bout the good old days because watching the boys slide down that hill with wagons and skateboards today, trampling down the St. Augustine, reminded me of the days when Grandad was a lad.
Our P.F. Flyers wore base paths in that grass, which took years to recover into a respectable lawn, after we had grown enough to need full-sized diamonds. But that’s because my dad figured it was more important to let us play our daily baseball games than to cultivate a lawn like the neighbors.
In OUR case, it was really a hoot, because that family really did have the nicest lawn on our side of the tracks, and even the three girls who lived there weren’t allowed to set foot on the lawn. The dad even roped it off so nobody would walk on his precious Kentucky Blue.
So those girls, along with every other kid in the neighborhood, played in our yard, although we occasionally ventured to the vacant lot across the street, too.
As an aside (this whole column is turning into an aside), I didn’t know ’til just now that the P.F. stood for Posture Foundation. I guess P.F. Flyers didn’t work as well when we got to our teenage slouch years, eh?



Back in the day, when the garage was our backstop, which is why the siding cracked, we’d really have to wallop a ball to make it reach the bushes out by the sidewalk. One OVER the bushes was a home run. Seemed like a HUGE yard back then, but now, it seems like a postage stamp.
Anyway, back to the point: The grass on the The Fab Four’s knoll will sacrifice its life in the interests of youthful energy and playfulness, just as the grass under the swing set has, and the blades that gave up their ghosts soon after the sandbox was installed.
As I said, the kids’ playing is the proper priority. They’ll have fond memories of acts of derring do and tree climbing long after they’ve moved on to adulthood. Then the grass will get a second lease on life,
Some day, soon, when baby Patrick joins the back-yard hooligans, I wouldn’t be surprised if he told his brothers they have some ’splainin’ to do about where all the grass went before he got a chance to make his dent in the earth.

We Now Have a Black Irish President

Soooooooooo, the other day, I took Vincent, Jack and Luke to a movie. One of the previews was for a movie with The Rock in it.

Jack, who's 5, looked at him and said, "HEY! I know who he is!!!"
"Who?" I said, sure he was going to guess correctly, as I was certain he must have seen The Rock in one form or another. After ALL, who hasn’t seen any of the Scorpion King movies, because they play so often on TV?



Well, Jack didn’t answer immediately, and I could tell from his stammering that he was stalling for time. I could almost hear the gears in his brain whirring in the darkened theater faster than I could say, “Eat your OWN popcorn!”
Finally, he blurted out: "BARACK OBAMA!"
I almost laughed right out loud, because I thought he was saying “Rock,” until he added Obama, and I realized I had missed the beginning. (Or, perhaps, he actually said, "Rock Obama."
I mention that incident now, as I post this column on the historic inauguration day of America’s first black president.
PLUS, I’ve got to give the lad credit for his knowledge of current events. After all, when I was 5, I’m positive I didn’t know that Nixon was president.
But NOW, I discover I could be related to the new president. After all, he’s black, and I’m Irish, so maybe we have a Black Irish connection:




Soooooo, top ’O the morning’ to ya, GFC readers.
And, to Cousin O’Bama: May the road rise to meet you, the wind be ever at your back, and may the good Lord hold you in the palm of his hand (to help you get the upper hand on this flagging economy and all the other problems you're deigned to solve!).

From the Outside, Looking IN

Wouldn’t you know it, I misplaced my 3-D glasses right before the first picture of my latest grandchild, Bun, arrived. Usually, I’ve got a pair around my neck with those old-fart glass holders, but I misplaced them, too.
I checked my head, where I’ve seen other people forget their glasses, although I have never put mine there because I don’t want to get grease on the lenses; a bunch of drawers; several cabinets; and even the dishwasher, all to no avail (I DID find out that the dishwasher was full, so I turned it on).
I needed 3-D glasses because the picture is a new-fangled one taken in 3-D and I wanted to give the sonogram a very, very, very close inspection, to see what I could see, you know, whether the baby is smiling. Or, well, if you know what I mean: whether there might be any sign of an erector set to indicate whether Bun’s a boy or a girl. (That’s NOT to say that a girl wouldn’t be interested in an erector set; sexist, I’m not.)
But daughter Annie and Kevin don’t know the gender of their child yet. So obviously, they haven’t picked a name yet, and I suspect they will question my arbitrary decision to name it Bun. I’m trying not to meddle, but what else CAN I name the child, when it’s still in the oven?
The beauty of that name, of course, is that the lad or lass already has a song named after him or her. And some day, I bet the little bugger will be lined up in a school performance singing “Hot Cross Buns.” Of course, as is typical at such performances, it probably will be toward the END of a three-hour program during which I’ve had to clap politely, like golf fans at a tournament after a pro mercifully makes a triple bogey that knocks him out of the lead, for all the other no-talent kids parading across the stage.
Oh, come on now, before judging me harshly, admit it: You’ve thought the same thing, and wondered why the teachers don‘t cull the tone deaf (at the same time the parents around you are thinking the same about your progeny). School pageants often are insufferable, but they are rites of passage.
Thank GAWD, none of mine has ever been a scene stealer, as every event has one, the kid picking his nose, or falling off the stage, or lifting her dress, or pulling some other clownish antic. Oh, wait, I just remembered son Brendan’s vaudevillian, exaggerated trip on his way up to get his high school diploma.
But I’ve gotten off track. Back to bun:



Plus, the name fits the nursery rhyme, if the sonogrammed turns out to be a boy, with a lyrical tweak:
“If you’ve got no granddaughters,
“Give them to your grandsons,
“Hot cross buns … ”

Meanwhile, who KNEW they could take 3-D pictures of babies in the womb? It’s a God’s-eye view of biblical in proportion.
As recorded in Jeremiah: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart.”
At this point, GOD knows whether Bun is a girl or a boy. But we got a peek expectant parents didn’t have years ago.
As for me, I don’t care which gender Bun is; I just ask God to bless him or her with health. But I can’t wait to chuck him or her under the chin.
And now, I introduce you to: BUN. In 3-D, I guess; if you've got your glasses. Or, maybe a magnifying glass to find some conclusive evidence.




(If you see any clues I don’t, please drop me a line.)

Plain Trains, Dinosaurs and Automobiles

Kids may share DNA, some physical attributes and even beds, but their personal interests can split wider than a sumo wrestler’s briefs.
Well, I guess that’s a bad analogy, because sumo wrestlers don’t wear briefs. At least I assume they don’t, but how would I know, as they’re hidden under those diapers they wind ’round, and ’round, and ’ROUND, their bodies, although leaving their cheeks exposed. The garments look like thongs (often known as butt floss, in crass circles, but this column is a class act, so I would never call them that).
Now, HOW did I get sidecracked, uh, sideTRACKED, THAT time?
Anyway, back on point: Kids sure aren’t cookie cutters, when it comes to their individual passions. Oh, they may share interests in some things, such as toy cars. Vincent always has liked cars, and Jack is fond of them, too, but Luke is passionate about them.
In fact, the 3-year-old is a definition of passionate, usually walking around with two or three cars in each hand. And red is his favorite color, so you can guess his star car: Lightning McQueen. Of course, that also makes him passionate about the movie “Cars” because, for him, life is a highway.



For Jack, it’s dinosaurs, always has been, always will be. He’s got enough dinosaurs of various sizes and strains to fill Jurassic Park. And woe is me when I call a T rex a velociraptor. The 5-year-old isn’t patient with dino ignorance.





Jack isn’t one-dimensional, though, as he recently took a fancy to snow globes. Although I’m sure their numbers never will rival his dinosaurs, when he accumulated four of the globes, he proudly started referring to them as his “snow globe collection.”
Not that I spoil the lads, but I promptly went on a quest to circle globes that would have put Columbus to shame. Within a short time, I had accumulated more than a dozen for future gifts. I’m set for Christmases and birthdays for a long time.
One provided a good example of the fact that Vincent could care less about snow globes. Whenever we have a gift for one or the other of the lads, we make sure to squirrel it away when Jack or Luke visits because they immediately would want to know who gets it. And they aren’t that good at keeping secrets.
But I had no worries during one of Vincent’s overnights. I had a snow globe ensconced on the kitchen counter, where I was gluing parts that had fallen off during shipment. I hid it in plain sight, so to speak.
The 7-year-old walked past it a dozen times and said nary a word. Because he doesn’t give a RIP about snow globes.
Finally, I said, “That snow globe is for Jack.”
“I know,” he replied, not even interested enough to ask whether it was for Christmas or birthday, or whatever.
On the other hand, Jack and I were watching a movie that featured several scenes of trains. “Vincent would LOVE this movie,” he said, acknowledging his older brother’s passion even though his brought yawns from the elder.
Vincent’s passion for trains was fueled back when he barely could walk. Whenever he heard a train in the distance, he’d leap into my arms and we’d run off to see it.
His interests take new turns once in awhile (right now, he’s into karate), but he always gets back on track: train tracks.
He can identify engines by fuel type and cars by work assignment as well as Jack does dinosaurs and whether they are plant eaters or carnivores.
Vincent can sit in front of train videos for hours on end.




As for the caboose of the family’s train, 5-month-old Patrick is passionate about one thing: cuddling up to the trough, so to speak. But we all know the flap that breast-feeding photos are causing on Facebook, so I’ll pass up posting graphic graphics. But I wish there was some way to broaden his interests beyond suckling to sleeping longer instead of just catnapping between burps and other bodily functions.
And I know Mom does, too. The little stinker takes short naps, at his leisure, and, although he sleeps through some nights, he still wakes up for a mid-night snack.
The lad’s parents need their sleep!