Wow, what a weekend. Besides my sudden urge to re-read the entire oeuvre of Kurt Vonnegut (not all in one weekend, of course), we spent the better part of our downtime interviewing potential real estate agents who will represent us in our home purchase. Most realtors thought this was odd, considering they usually work from referrals and we don’t directly pay them. However, considering they will be representing us in an expensive financial endeavor that will saddle us with considerable debt and a house that we may or may not love entirely, we felt it was better to choose a realtor we felt was perfect for us.
And we found them. It’s a team of two guys who work as a team. They are close to our age and really seem to “get” the issues of first-time homebuyers. They brought us six listings on Saturday and, after we were able to look at them, those boys really nailed what we were looking for based on the very small amount of information that we gave them. The best part is that the houses are very close to my lovely wife’s work, gorgeous baby’s sitter and adorable older-daughter’s friends. We’ll change school districts, but that’s okay. Our kids are brilliant and would excel in caves. Even better, they are very close to the Pudding’s new residence, which means that Gertrude and Meredith will be able to listen to Frank Bango together. I envision the day when they come to us and ask, “When Frank sings ‘Isn’t that like saying everything will be okay as we make our way towards the guillotine’ what exactly does that mean?” (Side note: Frank Bango has personally endorsed the gestation and subsequent birth of Pudding Pop. Wow. I was only able to get the blessing from Mike Love, that bastard from the Beach Boys. And that was because I promised she would have less hair than him. I tried to get Darian Sahanaja of the Wondermints to endorse the birth, because of his Groovy hair. But he was in Japan at the time. Damn him.)
We look at our first houses tomorrow afternoon. The thought of writing a check larger than the price of a CD makes me nauseous. I hope that when the time comes, I don’t throw up at the title company.
“Mr. O’Brien, we’ll need your check for $100000000000000000 now.”
“Blarck!”
We had some other fun this weekend as well. Matilida went on a road-trip with Grandma to see her uncle in a play. She had a wonderful time and was actually included in the play for a brief moment. The rest of us talked to realtors.
But two very important events unfolded regarding the baby. It’s true that her vocabulary is expanding every single day and that this weekend she added “eat” and “cheese” to her growing lexicon of Gertish. Of course, that has nothing to do with what I’m talking about.
Gertrude is trying to exert her sense of independence and showing that, at the ripe-old age of sixteen months, she wants to show her autonomy.
It started innocently enough. We were chasing the girls through the house and zerberting them. (For those of you not familiar with the concept of a zerbert, it is when you give someone raspberries on their tummies. It is funny when you do it to a kid, but when adults try to zerbert one another it is grounds for divorce and, in some cases, financial damages). We caught the baby and zerberted her. She zerberted back. We all laughed with the glee of a happy family spreading saliva through the house.
Then Gert walked away, pulled up her shirt exposing her extra-cute baby tummy, bent over and tried to zerbert herself. Why wait for Mom, Dad or Sissy to do it when she could clearly try it on her own?
Didn’t work. Though she has continually tried this for several days. I suspect that someday she will be successful and will write a scientific paper on the merits of removing two of your vertebrae for this purpose. “In conclusion, self-zerberting provides the subject with an over-all sense of calm and glee.”
The second instance of Gert’s independence is a little grosser and I’m afraid to even share it. However, the actions described in the story are part of a father’s prerogative and carry on traditions that have been around for centuries. Traditions that are far larger than you or me or the universe.
It involves “pull my finger”, a time-honored Dad joke that never gets old. When it’s your finger getting pulled. For the puller, all bets are off. However, one caveat: It involved belching, not other, more heinous acts.
So, I down a soda in one gulp and walk up to Gertrude. “Pull Daddy’s finger!” So she does. I belch. She laughs hysterically. (Note to all future parents: Despite what studies say about potty humor with children, it gets a huge laugh. It’s all about the laughs.)
Gertrude loved this little game and we played until I had lost five pounds. When I told her the game was over, she walked away sadly.
Then I looked over at her and saw her trying to pull her own finger. The look of frustration at the lack of report that is supposed to occur when you pull the trigger was profound. She was disappointed that she couldn’t succeed.
I felt bad. Really bad. And then I laughed for hours.
Because, of course, you know what the secret of comedy is, right?
Discuss
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