PapaDoodle: Laundry Day

Home with the Robersons...Always an Adventure

With our family, it's always an adventure.  Or a nightmare.  Half full, half empty, dirty water. Whatever.

At 11 pm, because my wife is who she is, was cooking a whole chicken.  For unknown reasons, this eventually set off our CO2 alarm.  Immediately, team Roberson flew into action.  Widows open.  Move to fresh air.  Alert the fire department.  Check, check, check.

After a couple minutes, Astoria's bravest show up.  Now you'd think they'd come in quite.  It was late, and for all they knew, it wasn't really an emergency.  Nope.  From around the corner I could hear them.  Sirens blaring, lights flashing.  Thanks guys for letting the rest of the block know that we can't cook a chicken without putting all of 41st St. at risk.

Question:  are all firemen descendants of a forgotten race of thick-accented giants, or just the ones in New York?  How did these guys get so big?  Is it something they eat, because we shop at the same grocery store.   These dudes were huge.  Even the fattest, least impressive - sort of their Webster - made me feel like Willow.  "Sheesh.  You guys want a real emergency, how about rescuing my confidence."

Finally, after a few moments of looking around and staring at a clicking box on their shirts, we got the all clear.  I jokingly offered them some chicken, which they declined.  I'm guessing they were thinking, "Keep the chicken. We'll settle for you not setting off alarms during the middle of PBS's post-debate coverage...kay?!"

Eventuallly, they left, much to the dissapoinment of my daughter, MONSTA.  If I'm honest, she was a little TOO excited by their arrival.  The minuite the truck pulled up, you would have thought the Beatles were coming over.

Bottom line:  the Roberson clan is safe.  We've got fresh batteries in the alarms, and WIFE is not allowed to cook after Jeopardy.

Papa Draw: How Miller Rolls

My Little Despot

Sometimes, when I look at my oldest, MONSTA, I see an angel. The sweetest, kindest, quick-witted little thing this side of heaven. Even her cheeks are pasty and round like those cherub paintings.  Ah...sometimes.

But this week, it's become clear that, as she chooses a career path, Atrocious Dictator is not out of the question. It's all there. The ability to fly off the handle when provoked. The backtalk. The stomping. All classic markings of history's greatest dictators. (It must have sucked living in the apartment below lil' Hitler.)  

It's more than just anger, though.  What really makes her a strong candidate for ruthless ruler is her ability to turn the switch at a moment's notice. This, my friends, is the mark of a truly great bad guy.  One minute, she's pushing to see how serious we are about our philosophy of 'non-violent parenting', and the next, she's singing The Sound of Music to her little brother. Immediately, I think that she's seen the error of her ways and has had a change of heart. A wet-kiss apology can't be far behind.  Then it hits me:  she isn't sorry.  She singing to him so that when he's older, he'll join the fight to overthrow us. It's a risky, long-term strategy that, when I look into his new, glossy eyes, seems to be working. Last night, he glared at me..I think. She's already won him over, and he isn't even two months old.  

For the sake of our home, my family and, hell, the world, I hope that I can tamper back the inner-Stalin I see brewing inside my lovely little MONSTA.  But it won't be easy.  Only the perfect formula of hugs, time-outs,  and La La Loopsy gifts can be used to win this fight.  And fight we must.  The future security of humanity depends on it.  Or at least Astoria.

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Note to self:  Idea for new screenplay - ala King Ralph, a little kid from Queens is crowned ruler of a small Asian country that her great-aunt was originally from.  But instead of ruling nicely, she turns into a ruthless, horrible warlord. She runs the workers and their economy into the ground by devoting all resources to the production of cotton candy and Barbies. Call it...DICTATOR TOT.  Dream casting: that kid from Jerry McGuire.  

                         

Papa Say: Baby 2 Be Physic

Having two kids is like owning a crystal ball.  No matter how sweet the new baby may seem, it only takes a minute with the older one to realize what a moody, fire-breathing monster it'll eventually become.  

Papa Back...Sort Of

Papa ain't written in a while.  Papa sorry for that.  See, Papa had another baby right before the holidays, and because no one thought to tell him what a terrible idea that was, Papa a little outta commission.  But Papa gonna be back, and quick like, so don't you fret.  But right now, Papa gots to get on and make another bottle of formula, because apparently even though all the bottles in our fridge look alike, the contents are not.  So shocker!  Papa chose wrong.  

Keep with me, y'all.  It's a new year, and Papa got some big thangs coming down the pipe; speaking in third person, for instance.  

Peace and love in this here new year!