Remember that 80s anti-drug commercial? Not the egg in the frying pan, the other one, the one where the haggard, strung-out-looking dad comes into his son’s room and yells at him about the drugs he found, demanding, “Who taught you how to do this stuff???”
Then the kid, all conflicted, wrestling with emotions, whips up an Oscar moment with, “YOU, ALL RIGHT? I LEARNED IT BY WATCHING YOU!!!”
Dad is confused, shocked to learn THAT’S where his missing crack pipe had landed. And so on.
Yes, what the anti-drug war lacked in subtlety (Just Say No—like, duh!), it made up for in memorable quotes. I guess to a certain degree, then, it was successful. It had staying power, inspired mimicry, the highest form of flattery.
Bub has started eating off the floor. How’s that for a segue? It’s all connected—work with me here, people.
This is a new thing (don’t want to call it a habit, per se). It’s no secret that Bub has an affinity for peppering a large radius around his high chair with multi-colored shrapnel. But now he’s taken to getting down after eating and recycling a bit before I can pick it up. It’s kind of like watching a dog lap up its own throw-up. Hope you’re not reading this at breakfast.
So I started thinking, maybe this was his plan all along. Like Beetlejuice, save that guy for later! Maybe he was rationing for the coming winter, like a little squirrel hoarding nuts. Being frugal, not obnoxious.
Or maybe he is afraid of heights, prefers eating at ground level (this has since been debunked). Maybe the floor adds a subtle distinct flavor. Like a tandoori oven, only different. Or maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, maybe he’s seen his old man do it countless times. I learned it by watching you! And I would like my crack pipe back, Bub.
Okay, yes, I eat off the floor sometimes. Most times. Nearly every day, maybe, but who’s counting? I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to. Waste not, want not, I always say. But I don’t want Bub eating off the floor. Mommy gets upset. So I’ve decided to start picking my nose instead.
To wit: Bub’s nose is an absolute disaster, and figures to be for much of the impending winter. I’m not exaggerating when I say his entire nasal region is crusted over every morning like a windshield after an all-night booger blizzard. He gets VERY upset when we try to clean him up, i.e. power-washing those boogers away. So upset he cries, his nose runs. And we start all over. Some call this the cycle of life.
My point is only that if he would actually start picking his nose once in a while, this wouldn’t happen. No more logjams and power tools required to dislodge the mess. So far it’s going pretty well, at least for me. I can pick my nose now without reproach. Sure, I get some funny looks at the IHOP. One guy leaned over and said, ‘Do you mind? We’re eating.’
‘Do you mind, buddy?’ I snapped, triple berry floofcakes dribbling down my chin. ‘I’m PARENTING.’
Nobody said this was going to be easy.