That last post was a missed opportunity. I wanted to express how my sons fill my chest with strange, wonderful twinges that exhilarate and suffocate me at the same time, but everything I came up with sounded maudlin or over-emotive. Overall, I think my game was off because for the first time I was blogging from work. My office makes me think like an automaton wage-earner who has to forage and provide, and whose fearsome presence sends impolitic thoughts cowering under the bed. Plus, my desktop isn't in the most private area, and it was impossible to keep focus while my noodge officemate kept trying to look over my shoulder.
How could I have overlooked the "Gondorff," an iconic scene in an iconic movie? And there's no excuse for not thinking of the "Drunk Freshman," since my first-year roommate passed out in exactly that position during the first week of fraternity rush. We drew rude tattoos all over his body in permanent ink and spent a good hour flicking Cracker Jacks into his mouth from long range. Fond memories for someone who now has to loom as the voice of authority in the Mystery of the Missing Balls.
Before we get into that, I should first admit that for some reason I can't process how tall Robert has gotten. I shouldn't be surprised, since 1) there's lots of height in my family (my brother would probably be 6-foot-9 by now if he hadn't taken up smoking at 13), and 2) more than once I've seen Robert grab something and thought, "Wow. He can reach that." Still, I keep leaving things on surfaces that are no longer Bert-proof.
Like the five sleeves of golf balls that until last week were on the bookshelf by my bed. Soon after they went missing I learned that Robert had decided he needed them for his OutSmarter MachineTM. Apparently, an unwitting soul is "outsmarted" when bouncy balls shoot down the ramp of his toy parking garage, bound across the hardwood floors, and lodge into the recesses of the living room. We had something of a Easter Egg hunt and found 9 of them, which means 6 are still at large. Among my usual foursome I'm well known for losing golf balls with spectacular shanks on the golf course. Losing them in my own home is pretty lame by comparison.
Intellectually, I know it's my fault for leaving stuff where he can get it. But part of me is annoyed enough to think that if he keeps taking things he knows he's not supposed to, he might just wake up one of these mornings with his mouth full of Cracker Jacks. Or maybe Veggie Booty.
