Mr. Z created a book of poems for the old lady on Mother's day called "Poems for My Mom." So you figure, hey that's nice of the boy -- what did he do, write a couple of poems? Awww.
He wrote 21.
Of course, they're all totally bizarre and I really don't think any of them actually has anything to do with the old lady or moms in general, but shit, there's 21 of 'em! There's one that he has been reciting pretty much daily since Mother's Day and it seems to have become some sort of comforting mantra for him. Perhaps he's repeating it to himself so as not to be upset by the dickhead neighbor kid who doesn't want to play with him anymore. I know not. But here it is (click to read):
It's only one of many. All your favorites are there: "Spam," "Pick on Bill," "The Green-'n'-Yellow Mohawk," and, of course, "Ode to Bears." He just cranks things out like this. Ever since he was three, he's been doing this kind of thing.
There -- I just ran up to his room and took a picture of the top shelf in his closet that's filled with these cardboard archive boxes of the books he used to write:
He alternated between reference-style books (about fish, insects, mammals, dinosaurs) and story books about his imaginary Apatosaurus friend, Abby. He was like a boy possessed, and used to crank out a book a day. Freaky shit... but a good read, I must say. Short and to the point. (Me no likee big words.)
His volume has definitely decreased over the years and, lately, he's gotten more into cartooning and creating his own trading cards. But he loves to get those boxes down and read the old books. I think he's even a little freaked out by some of them. Weird shit.
What's my point? Fuck, I don't know. But I do know that I created a little audio file to keep on my desktop for when I feel my crabbitude becoming too overwhelming. It's a snippet of Miss O laughing during a recording session and it fucking cracks my ass up every time I listen to it. Now, I might be venturing into self-indulgent dad land here, but I think even the most cynical fuckshit will find this mildly amusing:
If you don't laugh at this, you're a dick.
Sorry, I'm just feeling uncharacteristically wistful this eve'n, apparently. Oh well. Tomorrow I spend the whole day with Miss O, and then I have to cut the grass with my piece-o-carp manual mower, so I'm sure I'll be nice and cranky by tommorrow night.