MESSING WITH KIDS HEADS

There’s an added advantage to being my age and perceived as somewhat disabled. One is what you hear isn’t always what someone says. It makes for interesting (albeit frustrating at times) conversations with the participating people. The other advantage is you can get away with saying a lot of things people might think but never say out loud and people will just assume you need your meds adjusted again. With kids either side of that equation can be laughs by the boatload… for me at least. The trick, I’ve discovered is to use terminology they’re too young to know about and historical and social references they haven’t learned about from school or TV yet.
Some time back we had one of the many family gatherings that, more often than not, took place at our house because A) We had the room to do so and B) We had the kitchen, equipment, barbecues and smokers (not to mention the freezers and refrigerators) to prepare and feed a small country.
As would often be the case the smell of the food cooking and smoking would make the grandkids and their child like relatives, friends and assorted conspirators of similar size to be in a constant state of hunger long before dinner would be ready. At times like this they would usually hit “Papa” up for a snack. A) I was generally always in the kitchen making something. B) The other adults were too busy gossiping to hear the kid’s requests and C) They were always entertained by the performance (think of it as Dinner and a Show for the “Must be in bed by 8PM” crowd).
Generally I start out asking them what they’d like to eat and then after getting all of their answers decide what I feel like making for them while launching into a mash-up of every kids show that’s ever been made as I head towards the refrigerator. Bear in mind…the sicker, more twisted or gross you can get without stepping over that graphic boundary line the more kids like it. I don’t know why but they do. As I recall I thought that shit was funny when I was their age too.
“Gee Mr. Veetle, what’s in the Magic Refrigerator today?” “I don’t know Bobby, let’s find out shall we.” “Let’s see… we have a jar of caterpillars Bill Nye the Science Guy left here, some peanut butter, some hard boiled eggs Mr. Rogers dropped by (at which time I turn around and ask “Can you say “hard boiled?” I knew you could.” And let’s see….” “What’s that Mr. Veetle?” “Oh, that’s a head of cabbage Bobby.” “Are you sure Mr. Veetle? It kinda looks like the head of Mr. Nash the mailman.” “No Bobby it’s a head of cabbage. I got it fresh out of our neighbor John Wayne Gacy’s garden this morning.” “Besides, Mr. Nash has two ears and this only has one.” “Oh, OK Mr. Veetle. If you say so.”
About this time I finish making whatever I’m going to feed them and serve it to them. The kids are giggling and happily eating their snack. It’s then, and only then, I notice the silence in the rest of the house. I look up to see all of the adults in the house staring at me with eyes as big a saucers and their mouths hanging open nearly to the floor unable to speak. A personal “gotcha” moment for me, a photographic moment Kodak would love to have and Hallmark couldn’t come up with a sappy rhyme for. Vengeance is mine.
I have been quick to notice though that, given the right environment, children don’t need much encouragement to be bizarre. They discover early on that not much is out of bounds in “Papa’s World” which they appreciate. A perfect illustration is this:
My youngest daughter (The youngest of the three daughters by a mere eight weeks but…) who had some serious career choices to make in her life that went from World domination to gorilla motherhood and opted for the latter, she now has three beautiful, talented daughters who think camouflage is a fashion statement. She recently became leader of a radical faction of the PTA in the town she lives in out in IOWA. They meet in a secret bunker hidden in a cornfield and plot out subversive bake sales and paramilitary training disguised as “play dates” for the kids.
While she was still living here in the valley she asked if I could watch the girls for the afternoon while she did a bunch of things and I agreed to do this. At the time there were only two of them ages three and six. My daughter was pregnant with number three at the time.
At the appointed time she pulled up in the side driveway (that doubled as a landing strip for small planes in the neighborhood) in her SWAT team vehicle disguised as a family SUV fitted with Rhino bars, armor plating, bulletproof windows, and air lines with masks that fell out of a compartment in the ceiling if foul odors entered the vehicle. The car seats were bolted to the Kevlar covered seats. It had tires that would travel for fifty miles even after being punctured by armor piercing shells and a cute little “Baby on Board” sign in the back window. To say she is an overprotective mother would be more than a mild understatement.
She would hand me the keys because she knew I was going to have to pick my wife up at work later and wanted to make sure the girls were safe on the trip. Took the keys to my car and was off with a hearty “Hi, Ho, Silver” to points unknown.
The youngest was quick to notice we were one dog short that day. “Where’s Jack?” she asked.
“Jack got sick and passed away” I said as I tried how to explain this whole concept to her when she asked “What does that mean?” Before I could utter a word the six year old lets out an evil laugh and says “ That means he got buried under a big pile of dirt in the back yard.” Before falling to the floor in fits of laughter, truth be told…she wasn’t far off the mark.
Jack had been our rescue dog. Our office at the time was in the far north part of the valley at Carefree Highway and 28th Dr. One day my wife sees a silver Mercedes pull up in front of our office and take a pure breed pointer out of his car and tie his leash to a handicapped sign post next to it while he unloaded some things out of the back seat. Wendi figured he was taking the dog to the vet down the walkway and thought nothing of it and went back to what she was doing. A few minutes later she looks up and the dog and his stuff are still there and the Mercedes was gone. To make a long story short we inherited a dog that the vet told us had been starved, beaten and tied (probably to a water spicket) by his very short leash on a permanent basis and was half dead, could hardly walk and had difficulty standing up but we took him home anyway rather than put him down.
Our Rottweiler was a lovable oversized lap dog the kids loved and she was very protective of the grandkids. God help the person who tried to get between her and the grandkids without first saying hello to her and getting her permission to approach them. The only negative to her personality was she didn’t like other dogs. She would do everything in her power to tear through a fence or window to get at a dog two blocks away and was therefore in her territory because she could see them. We cautiously introduced Jack (my wife named him that because she said his spots were the color of Jack Daniels…and he walked like a drunk) to Angel. Angel surprisingly didn’t act aggressively and seemed to understand his predicament and immediately took charge of him.
Jack was malnourished, crippled, had no reverse gear but was lovable and the grandkids took to him immediately and had great fun trying to keep him from running into things and out of places he couldn’t back out of. Angel grew tired of having to nudge him out of harm’s way and being stepped on but she still got quickly attached to him too. Jack was showing slight signs of getting better every day.
A few days before the girls came over we made the mistake of leaving the dogs outside while we ran an errand. When we came home we found Jack floating in the pool and Angel lying on the pool deck near him looking heartbroken. We fished him out and my daughter and son-in-law (the one’s we live with now) were living in our guest house at the time and took him out to the horse arena behind it and buried him in the far corner.
All of that lay fresh in my mind while the six year old was doubled over in self created laughter. A short time later we had to go get Wendi at the office so off up the freeway we headed. At the time they were widening the I-17 to Anthem and building the new interchange where the I-17 and the 303 would connect so there was a lot of construction going on.
Out of the blue both girls shriek with laughter and shout “Look Papa! Big piles of dirt! What have they buried there?!” and with each pile of dirt they saw from there to Carefree Highway they would laugh even harder.
It just goes to show you. Children don’t need anyone’s help to be twisted but it’s still fun to try now and then. It’s still fun to get the better of my kids when they least expect it too. The world must remain cautious. I am old and have drugs…you never know what I’ll say next or when.
More later.