Many of you already know that I can make infants burp at will. But is that the Ω of my arcane talentry? As if. The fates have also endowed me with Acute Temporal Sensitivity, whereby I can usually approximate the correct time of day within 15 minutes. It's a little parlor trick I inherited from my dad, and neither of us can explain it. Our best guess is that it's some kind of cosmic reciprocity for our shaggy arm hair, which makes it uncomfortable to wear a watch.
All this is fine and good and amusing until you factor in the nature of my job, which has become so familiar, week in and week out, that every day has a feel. This means I can now tell the day and time at just about any conscious moment. Suddenly, my groove looks more like a rut.
Days off, therefore, are such a welcome shake-up that I was more than happy—ecstatic! enraptured!—to kick back with the boys while my wife went off and pretended to be a human being for a few hours. I ministered to little TwoBert, who over the last week has been fighting a bug so boogery that we have to pry his eyes open after every nap. I also indulged Robert, who is currently on some strange hunger strike that restricts his diet to toast and baby carrots.
Robert deeply resents that TwoBert has gotten most of the attention lately, even though he coughs just as much—and as wetly—as his little brother does. (When they cough in unison, it sounds like an army marching through an icy-crisp snow.) How ironic that Robert's nose would be this far out of joint when it was his nose that brought us this evil virus in the first place.
So I spent the balance of Friday afternoon with my ill and/or ill-mannered little moppets, and the shock to the system worked wonders. For the first time in weeks, time stood still.
