tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77594334726949915052024-03-12T17:26:12.570-07:00AutisticalUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-44923927006874372562019-10-23T12:42:00.002-07:002019-10-23T12:42:48.692-07:00A little bit of something for everyone<img height="476" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/v7bO--K1q28butmHHB8nbuzuhAAHndaIVkpv4lG5Bk3MBvyW7gwemTj9MvcU51Zk4-QT_U8kOZ7F8Yh4Q9wShmrXX2sgOwazDcrDt1xoXs0tSv8Iz8_Ah9hmjlQTLn9I9DR7eFiGKNZDLisolLIP84mBik5TJgQtuSGZEw3UmICGtCooxDy4DGshCuMRmbeNEDUmW25BDr5Uc6Msb0s-HMq63mqL4e0MCQ3mcWKDDH4quP0peCq8WkCb8G8V6oc_otQpP2DGSFmAwdpL0jAj1tjwLahC6e7hG9IJFXevA-Pq68ohkCZMQmfDEa-lsWsTotGq3_84wX8pUbx3T4WH4L8xfXnQL_M8997_hAFVXN9XsDf8FNnWmvMNP4pJmbKW-j-yCyhamxJVGNGpG4JPxVkI18Ou4FepegcG-jXlcFiAU2w5rY9d6kmYihf3h7AFzPwnb8sT7BSD7ktd78G_XCCTkkhfaTCax-bXq0q-lYl9vglbkdjDTFvVzXF3JPDqsyuOCQgMZX8hPnKoKO_L_0mRZCiJxYqoSCWvBbYoeFwbMS_QTTIuOwMOiU4hZzbAphDiBQDWtYmi6kgKzySekQp1T8aI485iFx4EnSfeZMKmRLshlp_JWUfmvnh7dbbL6_m8n-pikE-uyYXaqCIBb_fNEm7B7hj34kAfNz55XWxG4n9YtTf5HRw=w1155-h866-no" width="640" /><br />
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Taken on Frenchmen Street in New OrleansUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-23614127807810053292018-06-11T16:50:00.001-07:002018-06-11T16:52:38.647-07:00The iPad and the Ball. A cross-comparisonWhen there’s a ball in the house, by God, our dog can’t stop thinking about it.<br />
<br />
She carries it around in her mouth, dropping it at my feet, whining, hoping against hope I would pick it up and just throw the damn thing down the hall. Just once, come on, Dad.<br />
<br />
Same thing goes for my son, except it’s the iPad.
"Can I play on the iPad?" is the first thing out of his mouth in the morning.<br />
<br />
He wakes me up to ask this. Sometimes, I open my eyes and he's just standing there. Looking at me.<br />
<br />
“iPad, Dad?” he asks me, like I’m Don Draper, and he wants to pour me a drink.<br />
<br />
“You want to play with me on the iPad, Dad?” he asks after dinner and we’re doing the dishes.<br />
<br />
He hangs around, lying on the floor, raising his feet in the air, dropping them down, stomp stomp, rolling about, groaning, making noises, chirps and tweets.<br />
<br />
"Just once, come on, dad!" he groans.<br />
<br />
The dog comes up to me and drops the ball at my feet. Whining. My son lunges for her. Pepper growls.
Not this shit again, she groans.<br />
<br />
“Jesus, get out of here,” I bark at the both of them.<br />
<br />
I kick the ball away and Pepper tears off after it, like the road runner, legs spinning on the hard wood floor, desperately trying to get traction and when they do, she has to skid a sudden stop, sliding past the ball which has bounced off the wall. But she doesn’t care. She is chasing her ball.<br />
<br />
“Come on,Dad!” my son complains, “No fair!”<br />
<br />
A part inside of me agrees. He’s right, I agree. It is unfair. And the guy on my right shoulder, with the pitchfork and business suit also agrees.<br />
<br />
<i>Get this kid out of our hair,</i> he urges.<br />
<br />
“Just go play on the iPad until dinner is ready,” I tell him, and he is up and running. Away. In my favourite direction. Away from me.<br />
<br />
And Pepper comes back. The ball in her mouth. She drops it at my feet, and looks up at me with eyes that say, I’m never going to stop asking you to throw the ball for me.<br />
<br />
She needs an iPad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-64513933100775232352018-04-19T16:23:00.001-07:002018-04-19T16:23:43.104-07:00A thought about people interacting<p>If I'm being honest with myself. I’ve never completely understood how people relate to one another. In that way, I can relate to my daughter a little better.</p>
<p>I've tried to understand how people relate, but I usually fail. The fact that I’m married is testament to the fact that I tried — once — to go outside my comfort zone and act in a manner completely opposite to my character.</p>
<p>This must have come as a shock to my wife — that she fell in love with a facade.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-88264764875548078602017-12-14T16:54:00.002-08:002017-12-14T16:54:49.580-08:00A day in the life of Vancouver Harbour<br />
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This was taken from the window of my new office tower. That's the Seabus in the middle.<br />
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<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bMBOpZx67pg" width="560"></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-53744502131314659912017-11-09T16:05:00.001-08:002017-11-09T16:05:10.815-08:00Morning phone calls from the sonI think that one of the reasons I play on the iPad before bed at night is because I know that my son will be up at seven the next morning, and will go looking for it.<br />
<br />
By then, I will be on the road, or having my first cup of morning coffee. He will phone me and ask me where I left the iPad. I’ll tell him where it is and he’ll get it, thank me and hang up.<br />
<br />
I leave it in the same spot every time. I think we both know that. I think he could find it without ever phoning me. But this is part of his morning routine, just like it's part of mine. I like getting the phone call.<br />
<br />
I think he likes making it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-83730939732713720952017-10-15T15:44:00.000-07:002017-10-15T15:44:34.887-07:00Why are there so many exit signs in my hotel?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioIZIkDHhhry2TvchLXq8Nqay0tNUdep1l354cA7Wbw8FXgq4G5Q0xkEa6RbeIWnShMdTpmwWpMVI22ZkuXqPvnh7t3aUOmWtFtiZ1aAgXJ8YX0U3j08W2X2ngOpxD7goDXnHx8PIOS8CW/s1600/IMG_20171008_204926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioIZIkDHhhry2TvchLXq8Nqay0tNUdep1l354cA7Wbw8FXgq4G5Q0xkEa6RbeIWnShMdTpmwWpMVI22ZkuXqPvnh7t3aUOmWtFtiZ1aAgXJ8YX0U3j08W2X2ngOpxD7goDXnHx8PIOS8CW/s640/IMG_20171008_204926.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">The hallway of the Seattle hotel at which we stayed. </span></span><br />
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<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">The possibilities are: </span></span><br />
<ol>
<li><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Someone over-ordered exit signs and green signs are very hard to return</span></span></li>
<li><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Green is the colour of the Emerald City so half of them were put at Munchkin eye level</span></span></li>
<li><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">The lower ones are for cases where you have to crawl under the smoke.</span></span></li>
<li><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">That's oddly specific, as if they have learned from their mistakes. I'm no longer comfortable staying at this hotel</span></span></li>
</ol>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-54353334242468808342017-10-14T14:56:00.000-07:002017-10-14T14:56:41.064-07:00Our Whistler hotel promised us a balcony with our room<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8ykoXwz-yn081UUOH2mYggqjaXk6fCZF5XAn17HLLvGdrEPcMTDwuFuof7zHxK-P_XcFUvNQ8r1nDNPJgXymxllyIKmhjItWThRM4igasxGbWCxT8dnHynkY7hDQXqpBXCiLn4sI4CpP/s1600/IMG_20170807_203736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8ykoXwz-yn081UUOH2mYggqjaXk6fCZF5XAn17HLLvGdrEPcMTDwuFuof7zHxK-P_XcFUvNQ8r1nDNPJgXymxllyIKmhjItWThRM4igasxGbWCxT8dnHynkY7hDQXqpBXCiLn4sI4CpP/s640/IMG_20170807_203736.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-21766275598155975042017-09-30T21:22:00.000-07:002017-09-30T21:22:20.107-07:00Never let them tell you which sticks you can't chase<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOHPuTxVP9Imd9gx__PooUYJhySquDJk-30d5Xa0OG86RPscWwKPh0yA6rzAwBPqAUXDrS3-k0LBCMKwrVy3-uzVonhpCN3vYhtc47ajvJYSMG0nCVQIxpSNE3f8oFQ4wG_B4T7INxxUR/s1600/stick.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="662" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOHPuTxVP9Imd9gx__PooUYJhySquDJk-30d5Xa0OG86RPscWwKPh0yA6rzAwBPqAUXDrS3-k0LBCMKwrVy3-uzVonhpCN3vYhtc47ajvJYSMG0nCVQIxpSNE3f8oFQ4wG_B4T7INxxUR/s1600/stick.png" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-35100887335666406902017-09-23T07:57:00.002-07:002017-09-23T07:57:43.515-07:00Bennett found this while waiting for a table at Rosa's Cantina<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcdouIm0-g_r5y1nxhkqG999TS9x-1nqViWziDKYAN6zKPjk4JRVDKA_u90VPVpwsxsh8Xup_XAFoP-KCVN2THT-X6ZAivCZuIiXOkDzQfFBXpIT0dAPhhyphenhyphenD-MIC0AzI-M7egyfikqpbOz/s1600/IMG_20170921_184919.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcdouIm0-g_r5y1nxhkqG999TS9x-1nqViWziDKYAN6zKPjk4JRVDKA_u90VPVpwsxsh8Xup_XAFoP-KCVN2THT-X6ZAivCZuIiXOkDzQfFBXpIT0dAPhhyphenhyphenD-MIC0AzI-M7egyfikqpbOz/s640/IMG_20170921_184919.jpg" width="480" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-15921075634181978352017-07-28T15:53:00.001-07:002017-07-28T15:53:55.209-07:00A conversation with kids after Summer CampA conversation as I drove the kids home from summer camp.<br /><br /><b>BEN</b>: Which would you rather have. An army of fire ants or an army of wasps?<br /><b>ME</b>: Fire ants.<br /><b>BEN</b>: That’s stupid.<br /><b>ME</b>: Wait. Am I being attacked by this army or do I own it?<br /><b>BEN</b>: You own it.<br /><b>ME</b>: Then wasps all the way.<br /><b>BEN</b>:Totally<br /><b>NAT</b>: You can use it to sting your enemies with.<br /><b>ME</b>: You got that right.<br /><b>NAT</b>: I only got one true enemy.<br /><b>ME</b>:<br /><b>NAT</b>: Slides.<br /><b>ME</b>:<br /><b>NAT</b>: <i>Water</i> slides<br /><b>BEN</b>: Wasps are no good against waterslides, Natalie<br /><b>NAT</b>: Probably notUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-47703990225969093002017-04-23T08:30:00.001-07:002017-04-23T08:30:44.989-07:00One happy dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYV-Lti0l2crg02p39vSgaDSmDweei_aqO051qkoER_uVrN8ca5vNZl6reE2fqpV0CvB4jUmiuNGM7hDxLWyuDX4pp_a6vfwO99rBKbhsest7UVYvc6tIdw3ABgWwFf6Trc7T-wtZxg6Xk/s1600/XxrAAzV.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYV-Lti0l2crg02p39vSgaDSmDweei_aqO051qkoER_uVrN8ca5vNZl6reE2fqpV0CvB4jUmiuNGM7hDxLWyuDX4pp_a6vfwO99rBKbhsest7UVYvc6tIdw3ABgWwFf6Trc7T-wtZxg6Xk/s1600/XxrAAzV.png" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-22705766469307788532017-03-19T08:34:00.000-07:002017-03-19T08:43:47.535-07:00The Great Wall of Sea Lion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJhmdxWOwWPwEBTcKpIcHLS-HstEln1_InaTFDiJ0FK2vFZbeBMkABze2qUzCIk83TT52swDM6J7bl5-sIW7lRJg7mO0pbKbWVSV4cJcD49TcWVU2CxAj2UWNoryAxdHK19I737CowQT3/s1600/IMG_20170317_093828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJhmdxWOwWPwEBTcKpIcHLS-HstEln1_InaTFDiJ0FK2vFZbeBMkABze2qUzCIk83TT52swDM6J7bl5-sIW7lRJg7mO0pbKbWVSV4cJcD49TcWVU2CxAj2UWNoryAxdHK19I737CowQT3/s640/IMG_20170317_093828.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is the pier at Newport Oregon, and those aren't rocks. What looks like a massive pile of grubs is really a massive pile of Sea Lions all of them barking and oorking like they're on the floor of a stock exchange.</div>
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We heard them Friday morning from our hotel on the beach. Even though the surf at Newport is very loud we could still hear them in the distance, miles away, and over a hill.</div>
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After we found them all congregated on a pier in the bay (just outside the Shellfish Reserve), we found breakfast along Bay Blvd at The Coffee House (yes, that's the name) and our kids each had a pancake so large it spilled off the plate.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-R93jQ9Y9YE" width="560"></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-4483399949768924412017-03-09T08:30:00.002-08:002017-03-09T15:17:14.484-08:00Duckprints in the slush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3qKqiOEBbkOywECbRFMi0Qv0u78PFxi2Tn8sAEOngemRvFMJIq9hZVhWCbhwRCrom_aVCAPv7XGIrAtrTGQxT7-EbHbGy4eUzvkoIyGLmKF6v_VeT-ls9D0NsG_9BIa3wFk4NvV-saHo/s1600/IMG_20170307_092040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3qKqiOEBbkOywECbRFMi0Qv0u78PFxi2Tn8sAEOngemRvFMJIq9hZVhWCbhwRCrom_aVCAPv7XGIrAtrTGQxT7-EbHbGy4eUzvkoIyGLmKF6v_VeT-ls9D0NsG_9BIa3wFk4NvV-saHo/s640/IMG_20170307_092040.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-91445272487681328032016-11-28T11:11:00.000-08:002016-11-28T11:11:03.588-08:00No, that's a reindeer legMy son can't understand why this drawing of Santa made me laugh.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3gaOpiUK-rwJF6QrGPJLbYBkHcfH_zWBzCFvddbjEQFy0-4P0Df85yz5kgb3dT4kpzsOmS2H_9ygEvRfdO1u_Crf3Zhb8UkScDQOEgWKq6kzzfnVx-NLVCWfvN-ccBYe7XpFEieKlde2/s1600/IMG_20161126_214314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3gaOpiUK-rwJF6QrGPJLbYBkHcfH_zWBzCFvddbjEQFy0-4P0Df85yz5kgb3dT4kpzsOmS2H_9ygEvRfdO1u_Crf3Zhb8UkScDQOEgWKq6kzzfnVx-NLVCWfvN-ccBYe7XpFEieKlde2/s640/IMG_20161126_214314.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-81517949336449081652016-11-24T15:04:00.001-08:002016-11-24T15:04:51.967-08:00Just walked in on my son having a same sex wedding for his frogs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflsqE4MuaFgsVwrSQXGDsH03M-jO9XkzaMOXbZlvLi69153WbeG_byJvIa8EdLS9c9uYNIXJykpIk7pZFjNfa3-AsFjbcb08if5p5jWrUb_JgrXpNtl2ceMaiMMRBkDcUsqK5bs9R4QS7/s1600/IMG_20161017_081150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflsqE4MuaFgsVwrSQXGDsH03M-jO9XkzaMOXbZlvLi69153WbeG_byJvIa8EdLS9c9uYNIXJykpIk7pZFjNfa3-AsFjbcb08if5p5jWrUb_JgrXpNtl2ceMaiMMRBkDcUsqK5bs9R4QS7/s640/IMG_20161017_081150.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Brontosaurus (presiding minister):</b> Do you Toad Frog, take Frog Toad to be your lawfully wedded frog?<br />
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<b>Toad Frog:</b> Ribbit.<br />
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<b>FNAF Freddy Stuffy:</b> Mazeltov! <br />
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<b>Poop Emoji:</b> I always cry at weddings.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-90072580042177282252016-11-19T10:58:00.001-08:002016-11-19T11:00:39.043-08:00Just a really big rock. That is all<img class="SzDcob" height="601" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/c1blX0c271NMdhbNpJ2HqI2Vd1zf2u4FJfAjji_ReKcp2FOcMNSBF319QqZSA1R4JYVNATNCQw=w1604-h1202-no" style="transform: translate3d(0px, 0px, 0px) rotate(0deg);" width="802" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-26404112682786449702016-02-17T19:53:00.001-08:002016-02-17T19:53:59.235-08:00The day my teacher came to school with a gunI bought my seven year old son a hammer.<br />
<br />
As I sit here, staring at these words on a computer screen, <i>I bought my son a hammer</i>, one thought rises up and doesn't let me go.<br />
<br />
What was I<i> thinking</i>?<br />
<br />
First of all, it is an opening salvo in the war to preserve our past in our children. Everything I grew up with is as foreign to my kids as my dad's childhood is to me. My dad had no electricity, no running water, and in the winter, one of his chores was to shovel a path through the snow to the outhouse.<br />
<br />
I couldn't get my head around it. All I could think was, my dad is <i>weird</i>. <br />
<br />
And now, here I am, doing the same thing to my kids and they keep looking at me like I was speaking in parseltongue.<br />
<br />
"Dad," my son said to me and held out the iPad. "Can we download some of the games you played when you were a kid?"<br />
<br />
"Sorry, Bud," I shrugged. "They didn't have iPads when I was a kid. They didn't even have computers until I was a teenager."<br />
<br />
The best memory of my elementary school was the day our teacher walked in to the class room with a gun.<br />
<br />
Actually,
he had three guns. A double barrel .410 shotgun, a lever action
Winchester 44-40, and a .22 magnum semi-automatic with a 28 round clip.<br />
<br />
We
spent the afternoon learning how to assemble and disassemble firearms.
One month later, I scored perfect on the Conservation And Outdoor
Recreation Assessment exam, and was awarded my hunting license. As was
everyone else in our grade seven class, because this was a mandatory
part of the curriculum.<br />
<br />
We also read some books about
ancient Greece and Rome. We did a lot of spelling. Some math, and some
Canadian history. I don't remember any of that. But I can still
disassemble a bolt action rifle in less than a minute.<br />
<br />
That
was the same year, our Principal gave us a civics lesson, because of
the upcoming federal election. He outlined all the major parties, who
their leaders were, and their platforms. He took the entire class to a
political rally. And, to give us all a head start in developing our own
political sensibilities, he also gave us a crash course in which parties
were pinko socialists, and which party should be the natural ruling
party.<br />
<br />
Both my 7th grade teacher and my principal have
retired, which is a good thing, because they would be run out of town on
a rail today. The thought of bringing a rifle for children to handle is
enough to cause the heads of an entire PTA committee to explode. And
the idea that a principal could tell 12 year old kids which political
parties he favored is enough to make you want to reinstate the trusted
tradition of cutting out his tongue.<br />
<br />
But, best I can
remember, not one single kid in our class grew up to be a murderer or
even a common criminal. And we already knew which ones would grew up to
be assholes by the fifth grade. As for politics, the entire grade seven
class did not grow up to be Liberal fanatics. Some did. Others leaned to
the left. Others to the right.<br />
<br />
Maybe these teachers
were a little bit crazy. But they trusted their students in a way that
we don't today. They not only expected that we were mature enough to not
be turned into militant nazis by touching a gun, they also expected
that we were mature enough to hear an authority figure's opinion, yet
still form our own.<br />
<br />
Funny thing is, they were right.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-4855889616797721842016-02-14T07:26:00.001-08:002016-02-14T07:26:29.324-08:00When memes turn on their mastersOne of my meme posts went viral, and the Internet roasted me alive in the comments.<br />
<br />
Most people took umbrage with the coin flip, which was just literary effect (we don't flip coins, I just do what my wife tells me to do). But there was a great deal of shirt rending and hair pulling, lamenting that we were terrible people because of it, and should have both attended the game, perhaps burning incense in honour of our son's spirit.<br />
<br />
It is the conclusion of the Internet that anything short of both parents attending a soccer game is proof of bad parenting.
<blockquote class="imgur-embed-pub" lang="en" data-id="yV0EzPV"><a href="//imgur.com/yV0EzPV">When we signed our son up for soccer, he was far behind. Every other kid had been playing organized soccer for three years. As a consequence, he had a lot of ground to cover to get caught up. But he bore down worked hard at it, and it was awesome to see the payoff.edit: It&#039;s interesting and disappointing, to see the catcalling, and how many people threw out accusations of bad parenting. Perhaps this is a lesson in thinking before you cast stones. While it would be nice for both of us to attend our son&#039;s game, one of us has to stay at home with a special needs child.</a></blockquote><script async src="//s.imgur.com/min/embed.js" charset="utf-8"></script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-65088908888076252992016-02-04T12:16:00.003-08:002017-01-02T12:19:07.825-08:00Chapter Eleven. Nice and short<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKI4YeQHiZGPMj6ob0mkT-F_fUi8uanNT8gqSLOWBlsFCCbQJ7Y8n6CjtKd7E_P2wrml6dsSPxd3nuYRoH3F49cUx97JKE47H59IhVzCMixaurqAm_3k0e1bbZmfWYV5yZqDVNyrZslDq/s1600/IMG_20150111_210534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKI4YeQHiZGPMj6ob0mkT-F_fUi8uanNT8gqSLOWBlsFCCbQJ7Y8n6CjtKd7E_P2wrml6dsSPxd3nuYRoH3F49cUx97JKE47H59IhVzCMixaurqAm_3k0e1bbZmfWYV5yZqDVNyrZslDq/s320/IMG_20150111_210534.jpg" width="240" /></a>Nat has taken to writing novels. This is totally appropriate. This shouldn't be a surprise to me, because her favorite pastime is to sit on her bed, flipping pages in her dictionary. Studying for some imagined freakish upcoming spelling test from hell, is my guess why.<br />
<br />
But she has a writing bug, and it <i>is</i> a little surprising, because she seems happiest when working in fragments. Single words, splices of
dialogues she remembers, these are the areas in which she is most comfortable.<br />
<br />
Even so, she spends a lot of time writing convoluted whackjob stories that are the devil to read because her world does not include spaces between words. A sample of her prose on the right. Imagine trying to read this. I am a linguistic archeologist, because I have to chip the actual words out of this jumble of thought, this brain dump of notions, this shotcrete of her mind. One single paragraph. 22 pages long.<br />
<br />
"Spaces!" I tell her, again and again. "You have to put spaces between your words!"<br />
<br />
"But I do!" she protests.<br />
<br />
"Bigger spaces than the spaces between letters!"<br />
<br />
"Got it!" She gives me a thumbs up.<br />
<br />
"I think you're just blowing smoke at me," I never actually say. Although I should say it, because that's what happens every time. I tell her to use spaces. She nods, she agrees, she ignores.<br />
<br />
Go away, Dad, she tells me silently. This is <i>my</i> art, not yours. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, however, she sits at the computer and types her story. When she does, she puts spaces between her words. She has fewer of the stops and starts I find in her journals. The sentences seem to flow. Sometimes it can be magical.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, she wrote her first novel. It was two pages long, but it was a novel because it had eleven chapters, and it even had a story arc. There are lovers, there are chases. There is Humpty Dumpty. And a beanstalk. I don't know how she keeps project notes in that head of hers, but it's definitely not the Dewey Decimal System.<br />
<br />
And yet. And yet.<br />
<br />
There is something profoundly sweet about her writing. Something distant, like the movement from the side of your eye, like you may have just glimpsed an apparition, but it turns out to be an oddly shaped tree. You sense there is a deeper meaning in here words, as if her ideas are too big for head, as if the notion she is trying to get across is four dimensional, but has to be flattened down to two dimensions on paper. We only get a snapshot of what she is thinking, but sometimes we can see the larger picture hidden in a fourth dimension, and it's grand.<br />
<br />
She writes. When she finishes, she never shows it to anyone. She never presents it to us for praise. She never asks anyone if they want to read her stories.<br />
<br />
But she always leaves them in a visible space, there for us to stumble upon.<br />
<br />
This is the novel she wrote and I've read it for the sixth time. The things that hold your interest.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-------------------------------------------------------------------------- </div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter One. The Greatest Love Story Ever Told</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">She took off the goggles and helmet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Her name was Fifi.</span><br />
<br />
(<i>editor's note: oh, this is great. A simple opening chapter. Short. Introduces the main character. Fifi. She has goggles. I love Fifi already</i>) <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Two, The Plane Takes Off</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">She took off in her plane. A boy named Kevin tried to find the girl who stole Snoopy's heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">There she was!</span><br />
<i>(okay, we've got a love interest. I'm not sure who Snoopy is, but this is just a first draft) </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Three. The Plane Kidnaps Fifi</b></span><br />
<br />
(<i>what, wasn't it Fifi's plane to begin with?</i>)<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Nooooo, yelled Kevin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fifi was gone.</span><br />
<i>(drama, tension. I suspect it wasn't the actual plane that kidnapped Fifi, and probably someone in the plane. But still, I'm very worried about Fifi now) </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Four. Curse You!</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Walt Disney presents a Walt Disney production: The Robot And Boy Movie.</span> <i>(wait, what?)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Something ticks.</span> <i>(ooh, tension)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">A mouse crawled up the sleeve.</span> <i>(creepy, this is good)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Rocrin screamed</span> (<i> I don't know who Rocrin is, but he shows up in Nat's stories a lot</i>)<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He fell over and passed out. </span>(<i>seriously, I was on the edge of my seat at this point</i>)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Five. Never Scream In Someone's Face</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Greg fell into the trash. </span> (<i>Greg? who is Greg??)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fifi leaped off the plane.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">HELP, he screamed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He fell over and passed out.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> (<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Greg may be a drunk) </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Six: Greg gets reused</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fifi saved the screaming kid.</span> <i>(Is that Greg? From the trash?)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">You saved him, your a hero!</span> <i>(you're*)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Humpty stepped out of his cell.</span> (<i>who?</i>) <br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He was happy to see Puss. </span>(<i>is this a flashback? is it relevant to the story?</i>)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Seven, Never Give Up</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">But the beanstalk grew and grew and grew and grew and grew</span> <i>(I get it, it <u>grew</u>) </i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">and grew until it got to the top of the clouds. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fifi called for Greg and Rocrin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Greg saw Rocrin's sweater but there was not sight of Rocrin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He called, Where are you? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Eight. Manny Can You Hear Me?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Rocrin, get off your brother! </span><i>(Manny may be Rocrin's brother)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Okay, Fregley. </span><i>(who is Fregley??)</i> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Rocrin slapped him on the mouth, </span><i>(hard?)</i> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">yes real hard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When they were kids, Rockrin got off burst of smoke</span><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> </span>(I don't know what that means)</i>.<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Greg</span> <i>(remember Greg? The one that passed out in the trash?)</i> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">dragged Rocrin from Fregley and punched him in the face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fregley, don't worry, do you want to come out?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">What is he worrying about?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Patty's gonna kill Greg.</span> <i>(Greg is NOT having a good day)</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Nine. A Robot Friend</b></span><br />
<br />
<i>(Robots?? Pick a plot line!)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Jump. Whoosh!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Snore.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">two years later:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Frown. Slam.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Get up!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Stomp. Grab. Sneak. Stand. Grab. Run! Throw!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Gasp!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sigh, walk, mix, throw</span> <i>(you know what, it gets kind of repetitive here, I think we can skip the next page and a half of onomatopoeia. </i><br />
<br />
<i><b>tldr; </b>lots of stomping, sneaking, slapping, someone calls someone a stupid bird. Patty - I don't know who Patty is - slaps Rocrin)</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Ten. Apologizing</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Patty ran over to Rocrin </span><i>(DON'T LEAVE ME HANGING DID PATTY KILL GREG??)</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The ghost should have not killed your brother. I'm sorry.</span> (<i>wait, what, when was there a ghost?</i>) <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Chapter Eleven. Cindy and John Get Married</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">John, do you take Cindy to be your wife?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">And Cindy, do you take John to be your husband?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sure thing.</span><br />
<br />
<i>(who are John and Cindy? You know what, never mind, they sound like sweet people)</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>-------------------------------------------------------------------------- </i></div>
<br />
Okay, so the story seems to end a little abruptly, but at least it has a happy ending. John and Cindy get married, and that's the kind of thing you want to happen after the robots appear, after Patty attempts to kill Greg, after ghosts kill brother<i>s.</i><br />
<br />
I gave her back my annotated critique of her novel. She read it over. Frowned. Read it over again. Slowly looked up at me.<br />
<br />
"I liked it," I said, quickly.<br />
<br />
"Okay," she said, and then pushed me out the door.<br />
<br />
Artists. They're all primadonnas.<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-40943864832920713852015-11-30T14:03:00.001-08:002015-11-30T14:03:28.031-08:00The Christmas decorations start going up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My wife has a calling. This is her first attempt at making the house seem like Christma. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-45725007460685302262015-11-21T16:54:00.002-08:002017-08-03T10:35:33.458-07:00A shoe or a life? The choice is clearThis afternoon at Lafarge Park, I took my daughter scootering. Half way around the lake, I noticed that she was missing a shoe.<br />
<br />"Where's your shoe?" I asked.<br />
<br />"Back on the other side of the lake."<br />
<br />"Why didn't you pick it up?"<br />
<br />"Zombies," she replied, and she said it so earnestly that I kind of believed her. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-1022140935955911452015-11-10T08:42:00.000-08:002015-11-10T08:42:21.602-08:00The first dateThis is pretty much how we all want it to turn out for our kids ...<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/125451000" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <br />
<a href="https://vimeo.com/125451000">Bumblebees</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/jennakanell">Jenna Kanell</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-40716315821431260952015-10-28T17:06:00.000-07:002015-10-28T17:06:04.161-07:00The IEP Meeting - Where all you really wanna do is break something, but probably you should laugh<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7759433472694991505" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Yes.
<br />
<br />
Our IEP meeting is coming soon ...<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-76606239247701152342015-09-20T17:26:00.000-07:002015-09-20T17:26:09.403-07:00Dads are on a short leash with their autistic daughters<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">THERE ARE THINGS I am not
good at. One of them is <i>recognizing</i> which things I am not good at. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This leads
to confusion and embarrassment when I apologize about the things I do. I honestly thought I
was good at it and yes you can have your remote control helicopter back just as
soon as I find where it crashed in the woods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Being unknowingly terrible at things is the human condition, so when we <i>know</i> we are bad something, I suppose we should be relieved. But why does it bother me that I
don't know how to play games with my daughter? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I know how to play games
with my seven year old son. I collapse to the rug and let him do knee drops on me.
He loves it and so do I. Playing with little boys is easy. Let them crash into
you. Done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But playing with little
girls? Not the same. They expect you to reply to them if they ask you a
question. Boys don’t. They couldn’t possibly care less about discourse. They
don't care what you say just as long as you say it in a demonic voice, and then
whatever you say is gold, Jerry, gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Little girls want
to ask - and be asked - real questions. Autistic girls aren't different,
except they have no idea which questions to ask. That leaves me constantly
jumping out of character with my daughter, Natalie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: (puts down plastic cup)
Now you should say, ‘did you have a nice day?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: Did you have a nice
day?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: And then you pour the
tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: And then you pour the
tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: No. I meant pour the
tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: Pour the tea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> pour the tea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> pour the tea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Don’t be mistaken. This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> frustrating to her. This is great
fun, actually, because now she can watch the shallow veneer of certainty drain
away from me, and the mounting frustration turn my face purple. Any minute now I
will yell, and she likes it when I yell because she gets to look at me sternly
and say, "Dad you <i>promised</i> you wouldn't yell."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She likes to do that a lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: (shouting from kitchen)
Natalie! Come for dinner!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: (from other end of
house) Stop SHOUTING at me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: (in a lower voice)
Sorry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There are many of us, by
the way, who secretly suspect there's nothing at all wrong with her, and she
was put on this earth as a walking talking sarcastic comment about her father.
The lines dividing the mature and immature one are somewhat blurred with us.
And forget dad jokes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: I’m hungry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ME</b>: Hi hungry, I’m Dad<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>NAT</b>: I’ll give you twenty
five bucks to stop saying that<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Rock bottom. You’ve hit
rock bottom when autistic children are calling you out on your behaviour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7759433472694991505.post-21639642850635520772015-07-13T22:17:00.000-07:002016-09-22T10:49:02.596-07:00Ten wishes my daughter asked for
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As I tucked her in, my daughter asked me if
she could have ten wishes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Genies typically offer three
wishes," I said. "Do you think I’m a government genie or something?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I want ten wishes," she said,
and her fingers strummed the air, staring up at the ceiling, blinking fast,
excited.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Fine," I said to her. "What
do you wish for?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She grinned and tensed up a bit with
excitement. Then, out it all came.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I wish for a castle," she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I nodded. "A castle is a good thing to
wish for. With towers?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Towers," she agreed. "That
would be nice."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"On top of a hill?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Yes."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"With a moat?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She looked at me sideways.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Okay," she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"With a-" but before I could say
anything more, she put a hand over my mouth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"My second wish is for a
bicycle."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"You already have a bicycle," I
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"A bicycle," she said, more
forcefully.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I think I can fill your order, then.
What's next?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"My third wish is that I could take a
ride on a magic carpet."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I raised my eyebrows. "You're all over
the map, kid."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I wish I could stay up all
night."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"That's like the exact opposite of
what we wish for you every night, you know."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She frowned at me. "For my next
wish..." she said slowly, "I want to be a mouse."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She thought about it for a moment.
"Then I want to be a cat."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"You want to be a cat?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Then I'd chase myself."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"That's oddly profound," I said
in wonder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"No, no, no, no!" she waved her
hands in excitement. "I wish I was a chick." She clapped her hands,
"A chick! And I would say, la dee dah, la dee dah, hey boys, how's it
going."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Oh," I said, surprised.
"You want to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> kind of
chick?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She narrowed her eyes. "I wish I was
vanishing cream."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Now you wish you were a salve?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Then I wish I could see through a
peephole."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I've got to tell you that's the
weirdest wish I've ever heard."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Then I want to see through Jeremy's
eyes."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Okay, now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> is the weirdest wish I've ever heard. Who is Jeremy?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"He's a cat."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Jeremy the cat?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Yes," she rolled her eyes.
"You know. The cat and mouse. Tom and Jeremy."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Ohhh," I said. "You mean
Tom and Jerry."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She looked at me for a moment. "I
don't know who that is."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Never mind. That's a lot of
wishes."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Dad?" she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"Yes?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I still got one more wish."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I can't wait to hear it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">"I wish I had a friend."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I kissed her on the forehead and tucked her
in. "I wish that too, sweetheart. Maybe we can work on making that one
come true."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2