Reader Note: If you're interested in watching the boys in action, doing all kinds of funny stuff, videos of the crew can be found here on YouTube.Kelly, aka, "The Hammer" Kelly turns four this week on September 24th.
Kelly has taken to the great American pastime, baseball. Often in the evening, after our able nanny departs, Kelly insists on taking batting practice, serious batting practice, swinging for the fences, over and over, until dinner is served. He's a righty with a natural line drive swing. Thus, the new nickname: "The Hammer".
Well, we took "The Hammer" to his first major league baseball game this week, a day contest between the home Rockies (in the midst of a major hot streak), and the rival Padres. Kelly loved game and all the minor extravagances that, in composite, is a day at the old ballpark. Kelly wolfed down park dog with catsup, cracker jacks (the vegetable of his meal?) and purple cotton candy (Mom's call on that one). He quizzed us about the name of every new batter.
After Troy Tulowitzki cracked a three-run homer in the fourth, I hoisted Kelly up on my shoulders as the stadium and Kelly enthusiastically cheered the all-star shortstop during his jog around the diamond. Kelly pointed and laughed with a gleeful grin as the water fountain in center field erupted in celebration of the home team dinger.
It was hot in our sun-soaked boxed seats along the first base line, so we decided to take a walk around the stadium to explore and find some shad. We discovered a little kid t-ball batting cage out behind center and Kelly, after taking a few awkward swings with the longer, unfamiliar lumber, hammered the grapefruit sized wiffleballs into and over the miniature outfield wall until another future major leaguer wanted his turn.
As Tulow dug in for his third at bat of the game, we squeezed into a shady standing room spot along the railing behind the treed, pseudo mountainscape fountain area with a great view of the entire field. With two men on and after taking a few pitches, Tulow launched his second homer of the day into the left-field bleachers. The crowd went wild as the ball cleared the wall and Kelly lost his stuffing as the fountain shot five water spouts fifty feet or more in the air right in front of us. The Rockies beat the Padres 9-3 and won a new fan that day.
Overheard at Casa de Goodwillie:
"Kelly don't drive the car in your butt!" I said to Kelly as he was sprawled naked on his back with his feet in the air after a shower. Kelly was driving a matchbox car right up his, luckily, squeaky clean crack.
"Pebe (grand mother) you are so lucky you get to read to me tonight." Kelly.
Rhys, aka Big Boy, Boo Boo, Slick, or Rhysie Roo 27 months.
We found out Rhys' "Goodwillie eyes", in shape, also have provided him with our clan's characteristically poor vision. Rhys was fitted with fine wire-framed spectacles last week and is now sporting his "cool glasses." They have hooked earpieces and an oversized nose bridge that do an amazingly fine job of keeping them on, so far. Rhys, as per usual, while running around playing and performing other two-year-old business, has taken several face-first, head-whiper falls and the glasses stay, mostly, in place. He tries to remove them on occasion, but way less than we feared. We guess, well, he can see so much better with the glasses he wants to keep them on. Rhys has been know to, inexplicably, walk straight into walls, cabinets, and doors. I guess, in hind site, the low visual acuity in his left eye may explain these incidents. The glasses, like the rest of his general facial area, need a thorough cleaning after meals, but the glasses are certainly less of a pain in the ass than we imagined.
Rudely jolted from a dream, mountain climbing in the Swiss Alps, I believe, I open my eyes. In the dim, pre-dawn light of our bedroom, I see Rhys’ face two and half inches from my nose. He’s patting me on the side of my face and softly repeating, “Pooooooop….poooooop….poooooo….pooooop.”
I check the clock. It’s four fracking thirty. I reach around to pat him on the bottom and confirm what my nose and Rhys himself is already telling me: my boy is packing a special present, just for me, a pant-load of steaming hot, super stinky poop.
“Poooooop, Daddy. Poooooop.”
Rhys, two-years plus a month old, turned escape artist this summer, vaulting the rail of his crib before first light to visit our bed and spread the joy of sleep deprivation to his beloved parental units. He did this every night for almost a week toward the end of July and I, as night patrolman and alpha of the pack, had the job of returned the whining, cranky, little wanker back to his cozy confines. I issued a firm command, "It's time for night-night. It's time for night-night", put him in his crib and quickly left his room, not uttering another word. Surprisingly, to you, and even a bit to me, Rhys followed orders and returned to sleep, but I rarely did.
The damage to our circadian rhythms, night after night, lead us to what I thought was a desperate, likely-to-fail, solution: a crib tent. I installed the contraption, similar in structure, with jointed tubular aluminum support rods, and material to a modern domed camping tent - just without a floor. I was a crib tent sceptic but now I'm a true believer. Everyone, including Rhys, sleeps better when we tuck and zip him in for the night.
Another nighttime Rhys note: he insists on his caretaker providing him with "two blankies" before being put in his, now, tented crib.
Beckett, aka "The Brain", formerly "Big Head" (He still has a giant dome but we thought
"The Brain" was more self-esteem enhancing than "Big Head."Beckett took his first steps a few weeks ago, crawls as fast as cockroach on fire, and cruises around, walking around with the aid of furniture, cabinetry, or human hand. He's still cute as a button, just bigger and with a developing feisty streak. As the third child with two equally demanding big bros, he often does not receive the attention he deserves, as is apparent from the length of this blog dedicated to chronicling (very little of) his early life.
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