Then, Noah (or, Larry, if you will) was born. Poor, little guy never had a chance. With Curly knocking chairs over on him and those pesky garage doors (yes, he did it too. The same thing… “Come on, son….”) he was doomed from the start. He has now busted his lip for the second or third time (we lose count), broken his arm, scratched his face, been smacked countless times with various objects by his big brother (Curly) and he is just beginning the “Stooges” years. He’s not even two yet!
We all remember the “Stooges” years. We all had them. Maybe your enemy wasn’t the garage door. Perhaps it was that step you never could remember was there. Maybe that chandelier your grandmother refused to hang higher than four feet from the ground. Maybe it was always forgetting that you should stand back when your friend is swinging the bat. Whatever it was, we were all there.
Now, I must to tell you something. Kids, sons especially, cause some sort of mysterious degeneration. Though never graceful by any means, I have noticed that I have to be careful not to come out of every day bruised. So, consequently, my wife gets to deal with the Three Conooges.
Signed,
1 comment:
Thanks, Moe, for an enlightening view on raising boys...sigh...here we go!
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