I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, as I’ve been technologically challenged at connecting with him via Skype. Of course, kids that age jabber and jabber and jabber, and even prattle on into a real or imagined cell phone, until Mommy or Daddy puts a real phone up to their mugs to have ’em chat with gramps. Then they go silent, as he often did.
So I didn’t know whether he’d be able to recite Lincoln’s Gettysburg address from memory, or just stammer out a few feeble attempts at Mom and Dad. Imagine my surprise when he balked at the one-syllable words but rattled off compound-complex verbals like a drummer rat-tat-tatting a riff at a rock concert.
That said, I’ve got to acknowledge that he’s kind of a one-riff percussionist. If he said it once during his one-week visit to Florida from the Minnesota tundra, he said it a bazillion times: “tickle-tickle-tickle.”
That’s his mantra, which he learned from his Grandma Stromberg: Tickle-tickle-tickle. He doesn’t necessarily pair it with tickling, just random conversation.
“Hey, AVERY, good morning!” I’d say each morning as he tried to scoot away from Dewey’s ritual of sniffing the lad’s butt. (Not that Dewey is a prevert — it’s just that he isn’t around babies much, so he uses his traditional dog greeting of butt-sniffing.)
“Tickle-tickle-tickle,” Avery would answer.
“How ’bout some lunch, Avery,” I’d say.
“Tickle-tickle-tickle,” he’d reply.
I’d even try to change up the tone by taunting: “Hey AVERY, how ’bout them Packers, cleaning the Vikings’ clock and mopping up the Metrodome with Brett Favre?”
Even though Avery’s blood runs as Vikings purple as his dad, Brendan, despite Brendan’s upbringing as a Bears fan, the cute little rugrat’s singular reply to the trash talking: “Tickle-tickle-tickle.”
Well, he’ll be 1 soon, and I bet he knows more words by then. As for me and Kate, and Dewey and Jazzy, we were tickled pink that Avery visited, with his dad, Brendan; mom, Erica; and aunt, Allison. (Well, truth be told, Dew loved Allison, too, although Jazz remained aloof, as is her wont. But both were less enthused about her lectures cajoling us to quit feeding them so much because they’ve put on a few extra pounds. They still are pissed about that. I suspect that, if I put a photo of Al in front of them, they’d growl at it [well, they’d muster as big of a “grrrrrrrrr“” as they can from their now-emaciated torsos].)
Also tickled were Avery’s cousins, the Four Horseman of Apocalyptic Noise: Vincent, Jack, Luke, and Patrick. The Fab Four had been looking forward to his visit for weeks, and they wasted no time in tumbling into a tangle of tiny testosterone to mug for the camera.
Monkeying around on the couch are, from left, Jack, Avery, Luke, Patrick, and Vincent. During the trip, the Gopher State Guests managed to sandwich in a delayed Christmas celebration at our house and an early birthday party for Jack at the Fab Four's abode. The Northerners had fun during the visit, although the Sunshine State didn’t show much sun between the time they arrived until they left (it’s been shining pretty much since their planes’ wheels left the runway — and that took some heft, with Brendan and Erica’s overweight bags).
And we had fun hosting them, although the dogs reprised an incident we had forgotten about. When Gloria, one of Kate’s longtime buddies, visited several months ago, the canines pulled off a caper when we were gone from the house one day. They rifled through Gloria’s belongings on a panty raid, and scattered her drawers around the house.
Similarly, we left them alone one day when we were showing the folks from the Gopher State around town and, upon our return, we discovered that the bandits had rifled through Erica’s and Allison’s suitcases and had a panty party.
I suspect that Dewey’s the randy one: After all, Jazzy carries such a superior air that I can’t imagine her longing for thongs. But Dewey’s the mischievous one, plus, he bullies sister Jazz, he goes bonkers when it’s time for a walk, and his black coat has such a sheen that sometimes I think I should call him Charlie. If I find out he’s addicted to panties, I’m gonna make him go to rehab, even if he says, “Bark, bark, bark.” (Translation, “No, no, no,” with apologies to Amy Winehouse.)
But enough about Dewey’s dastardly deeds. This is about Avery’s vacation to Florida, where he took in the sights and got to see me catch an 8-to-10-pound bass in the lake out back. Well, it WOULD have weighed that much, if it hadn’t been on Weight Watchers or something. It was LONG, but its belly was flat.
And, of course, the lad napped on the beach.
That picture just left me tickled-tickled-tickled.
