The old saw that one man's trash is another man's treasure has NOTHING on my grandsons' parade to present birthday presents to me a couple of days back.
Melissa let each of the lads choose the bling he wanted to give me for my 39th.
Luke approached excitedly and pushed the small package toward me. I carefully undid the ribbon and peeled back the wrapping paper he had helped put on the gift.
BeHOLD: Flarp.
Continuing to ride his wave of excitement, the 3-year-old said, "Can I PLAY with it, Papa Mike?"
"Of course, you can," I said. "Just don't spill it on the floor."
If you're wondering what Flarp Noise Putty is, be prepared for a whiplashed "What'll they think of NEXT?" response, followed quickly by "I wish I'D have thought of that!" Maybe.
Flarp, for the uninitiated, is a Play-Doh-like substance that comes in a little canister. With practice, you can learn how to thrust your fingers into it JUST SO, so that it makes armpit noises, also known as whoopy cushion sounds, also known, in flatulent circles, as farts.
For my money, I favor the armpit technique, if for no other reason than the fact that it doesn't stain anything, while Flarp in a kid's hands is like a fart on a griddle and there will be stains EVERYWHERE. (I won't demonstrate MY technique, because I've got too much class, and I'm opting not to present one from YouTube, but they abound there.)
Of course, I avoided the Flarp stains because I let Luke take it home, and sure 'nuf, his dad was able to show me stains in three places on their carpet next time I visited.
Next in the loot line was Jack, who presented me with his bag and grinned when I withdrew the little stuffed alien figure. Not like the one that terrorized Sig Weaver, but rather the wide-eyed variety of Roswell, N.M.
As I admired it, he suggested, "Maybe you could give me that back for my graduation present."
"GREAT idea," I thought. After ALL, I'd been lying awake nights trying to figure out what to get a 5-year-old for his preschool graduation. That's a milestone, right?
Then came Vincent, the most mature of us (yes, some people say he's more mature than I) when we're out and about. The 7-year-old showed his practical side here, too, as he gave me a little garden rake because he knew I might need one.
And HE didn't ask to use it right away or to get it back.
Patrick, the youngest, at a tad over nine months, didn't give me anything except that odd look he gives me, trying to figure out for SURE whether he trusts me, before he breaks out in that grin and burrows into his mom's or dad's shoulder.
But that look was a gift worth a canister of Flarp any day. But like Luke and Jack, Patrick took the smile home with him.
Fortunately, Melissa also brought a new picture of him for the refrigerator, so the Fab Four are smiling on me, along with their drawings. (Well, obviously, Patrick doesn't have any drawings and, actually, he's got a quizzical look on his face, as if he just dirtied his diapers.)
But the boys, and their photos, are treasures. (And I'm glad Luke took the Flarp home and trashed his own house.)
P.S.: As long as we're on the topics of gastronomical phenomena and education (Jack's graduation day, remember?), I might as well tell you the joke he learned from his Uncle Chris the other day.
Question: What do you call a person who won't fart in public?
Answer: A private tooter.
Ba-da-BUMP!
P.P.S.: As it turned out, I probably spent more on Jack's preschool graduation than my parents did on my high-school graduation. I snagged him enough alien stuff to start his own sector of Roswell.
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