Friday
01/03/04
The Christmas Tree with Boobies
I came to the conclusion, a very long time ago, that there will always be an unbridgeable gulf between my world and the world occupied by celebrity parents. I, for instance, have had the modest satisfaction of watching my boys as they fling themselves into space from the swing in the back yard when they get it going to a respectable height. It is unlikely, however, that I’ll ever be lucky enough to fly all the way to Rome just to indulge in the pleasure of dangling my child from a hotel balcony.
Likewise, on soft summer evenings the boys and I have little choice but to content ourselves by chasing fireflies with homemade nets and a jelly jar with holes poked in the lid. (Had enough Norman Rockwell yet?) It is again, however, unlikely that I’ll ever have my own zoo, complete with crocodiles for infant dangling purposes.
Ah but then again, my snide tone aside, haven’t we all engaged in moments of parental foolishness for which there is no justification? Granted, foolishness slightly less spectacular and rather danger-free, but still, my confession follows:
While trimming our tree this year the boys and I were trying to think of new and fun things to put on the tree. Little dated pictures of the kids are pleasant, in a traditional sort of way, but they lack a certain joie de vivre.
Simultaneous with this exercise, our youngest brought up the subject of names of different body parts. Various body parts were named. The list, as one can imagine, got cruder and sillier. Then I, in a moment of perfect clarity, had a flawlessly brilliant idea.
"You know what? Let’s put some boobies on the tree!" The giggling grew exponentially, and in a mere twinkle of Santa’s eye I had downloaded, printed, cropped and hung a small picture of Brown Boobies, species Sula leucogaster. It was, may I say, the hit of the evening, and my Lovely Bride, future saint that she is, merely rolled her eyes and looked the other way.
But then, almost as if it were a potted plant from outer space, the Legend of the Boobies grew out of control. Everyone who subsequently came to the house was led by the boys to the Brown Boobies. Reactions ranged from politely amused to the woodenly perplexed. But mostly perplexed.
So, one evening shortly thereafter, I, the guy now responsible for endangering the future character of not one, but two minors, had no choice but to dispose of the Brown Boobies under the cover of night. And, thankfully, once gone, they were quickly forgotten.
In the end, I consider myself lucky. Sure, I don’t have a sprawling, magical ranch replete with monkeys and poor John Merrick’s bones… and as much as a zoo would be a real conversation starter, I still have it better. After all, it’s pretty likely that friends and neighbors alike will someday forget all about my Christmas Tree with Boobies.
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The Christmas Tree with Boobies
I came to the conclusion, a very long time ago, that there will always be an unbridgeable gulf between my world and the world occupied by celebrity parents. I, for instance, have had the modest satisfaction of watching my boys as they fling themselves into space from the swing in the back yard when they get it going to a respectable height. It is unlikely, however, that I’ll ever be lucky enough to fly all the way to Rome just to indulge in the pleasure of dangling my child from a hotel balcony.
Likewise, on soft summer evenings the boys and I have little choice but to content ourselves by chasing fireflies with homemade nets and a jelly jar with holes poked in the lid. (Had enough Norman Rockwell yet?) It is again, however, unlikely that I’ll ever have my own zoo, complete with crocodiles for infant dangling purposes.
Ah but then again, my snide tone aside, haven’t we all engaged in moments of parental foolishness for which there is no justification? Granted, foolishness slightly less spectacular and rather danger-free, but still, my confession follows:
While trimming our tree this year the boys and I were trying to think of new and fun things to put on the tree. Little dated pictures of the kids are pleasant, in a traditional sort of way, but they lack a certain joie de vivre.
Simultaneous with this exercise, our youngest brought up the subject of names of different body parts. Various body parts were named. The list, as one can imagine, got cruder and sillier. Then I, in a moment of perfect clarity, had a flawlessly brilliant idea.
"You know what? Let’s put some boobies on the tree!" The giggling grew exponentially, and in a mere twinkle of Santa’s eye I had downloaded, printed, cropped and hung a small picture of Brown Boobies, species Sula leucogaster. It was, may I say, the hit of the evening, and my Lovely Bride, future saint that she is, merely rolled her eyes and looked the other way.
But then, almost as if it were a potted plant from outer space, the Legend of the Boobies grew out of control. Everyone who subsequently came to the house was led by the boys to the Brown Boobies. Reactions ranged from politely amused to the woodenly perplexed. But mostly perplexed.
So, one evening shortly thereafter, I, the guy now responsible for endangering the future character of not one, but two minors, had no choice but to dispose of the Brown Boobies under the cover of night. And, thankfully, once gone, they were quickly forgotten.
In the end, I consider myself lucky. Sure, I don’t have a sprawling, magical ranch replete with monkeys and poor John Merrick’s bones… and as much as a zoo would be a real conversation starter, I still have it better. After all, it’s pretty likely that friends and neighbors alike will someday forget all about my Christmas Tree with Boobies.
