I think a statistician is actually another name for a baseball fan in the post-season. Now that baseball's in full swing, however, the Man is back at his post, announcing the Red Sox' every move. His position as family sports announcer is pretty secure, given that our TV doesn't get reception and the major source of sports news in our house is the Man's much reviled Palm Pilot.
sigh. And I so wanted to ban that thing from family-time.
The boys, to nobody's surprise, adore baseball. Given the history of Red Sox mania in the Imperfect household, it was probably a tactical error to have bought the Toddles a Red Sox shirt (above). There are the odd dividends: should the Toddles adamantly refuse to have his diaper changed, Mr. Ortiz is always happy to cooperate. And we'll pause briefly to consider Big Papi and my little redheaded Toddles. I assure you that they overlap quite nicely, to the point that they become quite distressed at the idea of being separated.
Vocally distressed. Two-ish, one might say. The Toddles takes his investment in the Red Sox quite seriously, and we all were very solemn during Mr. Ortiz' hitting slump. Oh yes, the boys do love their baseball.
This morning, I was awakened by a small pajama-ed person, deputized by his clever dad to go and wake up the mama.
So, said the Toddles, bouncing onto the bed, what do you think?
I opened one eye, noted the proximity of his bum to my nose, and decided to pay attention.
So, pursued the Toddles, what do you think about it?
I sat up. About what?
About the Red Sox game last night. (clearly, the Toddles was making an effort to be patient with his sleepy parent)
Um. I dunno.
The Toddles took a deep breath, and launched:
I was there - I was David Ortiz, and [the Eldest] was there an he was Josh Beckett and Daddy was there and he was 'coby Ellsbury.
I blinked, considered Josh Beckett's previous incarnation in our home and grinned. Oh. And how did it go?
We played baseball an' basketball an' football - no, just baseball an' basketball - an' we did our best and I stepped in dog poop.
Thinking it over, I decided that I was going to need some coffee for this one.
Mother's Day is coming, and we at chez Imperfect are getting ready.
Thus far, I've set the Man up with a Mother's Day gift, arranged this morning for the boys to do Mother's Day cards (for Grandma, kids. And I'm just going to take my coffee upstairs, in case you want some privacy), and admired the Eldest's guess-and-go spelling of Happy Muthr's Day.
With this preparation, the Eldest took a moment to consider the actual value of maternal appreciation.
Mum, I have a present for you.
The Toddles and I, poised on the top step, shared a look and decided to sit down. Moments later, the Eldest was back.
This is for you, he said solemnly and presented me with a half-dollar. It's for all of the work you do, cleaning up around here.
I smiled and took it, hugged him and explained that I really appreciate you noticing the work that I do. I really feel valued. Thanks, sweetie.
Oh, you're welcome, said the Eldest airily. And if you do your work again (he paused to consider) another fifty times, I'll give you a penny.
Pondering the household economics implied by this offer, I went downstairs. There I found the Man admiring a dollar coin that the Eldest had given him, for dishwashing.
Heywhatthenow? Sigh. And yet I'm still not going knee-jerk feminist enough to vote for Hillary. But perhaps Mr. Beckett and I should have a little chat about women, hmmm?