Boys (and men)
Several of you have been kind enough to wonder if the Witts are okay. Yes, we are. I'm just busy planning for the college composition courses I'll be teaching in the fall, and for home school as well. And we spent three weeks wandering the southwest in a semi-working vacation.
Amongst all that, we're still working on the house. Last week I asked Jonathan if he'd replace a $12 doorknob, and instead he came home with an entire new exterior door and three new windows (yes, they were on sale; yes, they would have had to be purchased eventually anyway; no, the tax credit doesn't apply, though the salesman thought it did). Good thing we have home improvement books and helpful friends with good tools. The windows weren't too bad, but the door is, shall we say, challenging. Once we actually get it in, I'm going to paint it a triumphant purple. (And yes, it's "we." Jonathan works, while I stand by waiting to take him to the hospital. Did I tell you about the nine stitches in his scalp on New Year's Day?)
Our daughter (now 15) is, as usual, serene and helpful. (Apparently she got her lifetime supply of troublesomeness out of her system during those first six colicky months of life.) She's been picking berries and making jam, doing various things with various friends, and working on Celtic songs on her flute. She patiently plays with her brothers, does impossible chores like clipping the dog's toenails and, best of all, seems completely oblivious to a certain young man who has taken to keeping an eye on her.
Our boys--well, now that they're 11 and 12-almost-13, I really thought we were past this stage. But no. Yesterday one of their friends dared our youngest son to kiss a baby frog. "I'll give you one of my bionicles if you kiss it!" he said.
"Nah," said my son. Just when I thought he was showing good sense, he went on. "You don't have to give me anything. I'll kiss it for free."
And that's not even the worst of it. One day recently, Jonathan and I were painting our daughter's floor when the phone rang. I was covered in white paint (I've spent most of the summer covered in paint of one color or another), so Jonathan dashed out and grabbed it.
"Uhhhh, I'm gonna say no to that," he said, and hung up.
"Salesman?" I asked.
"No, our daughter. They're all over at the neighbors' house and she wants to know if the boys can eat ants."
"Yuck," I said, then considered. "Actually, Jonathan, I'm kinda surprised you said no. I mean, I would have said no, but I'd have thought you'd have let them. Dad always said he ate ants in France. Chocolate-covered ones. Or maybe those were grasshoppers ... "
"Yeah, well, the ants aren't the problem--it's all those woodchuck traps, and that dead deer out in the woods. Who knows what decomposing carcass the ants just crawled out of."
Before I could respond to that disgusting image, the phone rang again.
This time I couldn't hear the conversation, and Jonathan returned shaking his head. "That was our youngest," he said.
"And?"
"He says it's too late. He's already eaten two ants. The other boys asked their dad if they could eat ants, and Hugh said sure, eat them all. And our son wants to help eat them."
Oh, tough call. I wouldn't want to make our boys feel prissy compared to their friends and their friends' dad ... nor, no doubt, would Jonathan want to look prissy compared to Hugh. Besides, how likely was it that the ants had been mining a putrid woodchuck, instead of cavorting wholesomely on a nice green leaf?
"So what did you say?" I asked.
Jonathan smiled. "I said he could eat exactly as many ants as their dad was willing to eat."
Amongst all that, we're still working on the house. Last week I asked Jonathan if he'd replace a $12 doorknob, and instead he came home with an entire new exterior door and three new windows (yes, they were on sale; yes, they would have had to be purchased eventually anyway; no, the tax credit doesn't apply, though the salesman thought it did). Good thing we have home improvement books and helpful friends with good tools. The windows weren't too bad, but the door is, shall we say, challenging. Once we actually get it in, I'm going to paint it a triumphant purple. (And yes, it's "we." Jonathan works, while I stand by waiting to take him to the hospital. Did I tell you about the nine stitches in his scalp on New Year's Day?)
Our daughter (now 15) is, as usual, serene and helpful. (Apparently she got her lifetime supply of troublesomeness out of her system during those first six colicky months of life.) She's been picking berries and making jam, doing various things with various friends, and working on Celtic songs on her flute. She patiently plays with her brothers, does impossible chores like clipping the dog's toenails and, best of all, seems completely oblivious to a certain young man who has taken to keeping an eye on her.
Our boys--well, now that they're 11 and 12-almost-13, I really thought we were past this stage. But no. Yesterday one of their friends dared our youngest son to kiss a baby frog. "I'll give you one of my bionicles if you kiss it!" he said.
"Nah," said my son. Just when I thought he was showing good sense, he went on. "You don't have to give me anything. I'll kiss it for free."
And that's not even the worst of it. One day recently, Jonathan and I were painting our daughter's floor when the phone rang. I was covered in white paint (I've spent most of the summer covered in paint of one color or another), so Jonathan dashed out and grabbed it.
"Uhhhh, I'm gonna say no to that," he said, and hung up.
"Salesman?" I asked.
"No, our daughter. They're all over at the neighbors' house and she wants to know if the boys can eat ants."
"Yuck," I said, then considered. "Actually, Jonathan, I'm kinda surprised you said no. I mean, I would have said no, but I'd have thought you'd have let them. Dad always said he ate ants in France. Chocolate-covered ones. Or maybe those were grasshoppers ... "
"Yeah, well, the ants aren't the problem--it's all those woodchuck traps, and that dead deer out in the woods. Who knows what decomposing carcass the ants just crawled out of."
Before I could respond to that disgusting image, the phone rang again.
This time I couldn't hear the conversation, and Jonathan returned shaking his head. "That was our youngest," he said.
"And?"
"He says it's too late. He's already eaten two ants. The other boys asked their dad if they could eat ants, and Hugh said sure, eat them all. And our son wants to help eat them."
Oh, tough call. I wouldn't want to make our boys feel prissy compared to their friends and their friends' dad ... nor, no doubt, would Jonathan want to look prissy compared to Hugh. Besides, how likely was it that the ants had been mining a putrid woodchuck, instead of cavorting wholesomely on a nice green leaf?
"So what did you say?" I asked.
Jonathan smiled. "I said he could eat exactly as many ants as their dad was willing to eat."
Posted 
<< Home