The commencement of midseason television series marks the official end of the holidays.
Scrubs returned tonight, which means it's time to get back to work. Blogging is not working, but it's not exactly sitting around doing nothing, so here goes . . . not nothing anymore.
It feels good to be back typing stuff on the Internation. It felt even better to not do that for a long time. Rest is good. But after awhile, you need a break from the rest. I'll try to ease into it by recapping a couple of fun stories about my boys (each of whom aged about 6 years during the last month).
Addison got a fish tank for Christmas, so we got it ready and went out to buy a couple of fish. We got one that's an orange and black something or other named Sparky. His buddy was a skinny silver guy named Mikey. Unfortunately, Mikey didn't even survive the trip home from Wal-Mart. I thought he was making a very poor attempt at escaping being scooped out of his temporary shelter, the plastic bag thingy. And then it seemed for a moment like he was making a valiant display of fortitude as he began zipping around the wide open waters. Turns out that was just the wake of the filter propelling him around.
I know the description sounds callous, but I really was heartbroken that the fish we had just bought for 28 cents had now bought it on his own. I dreaded informing Addison that he had just experienced his first loss of a pet, mere seconds after we transported it home. When I told him I thought Mikey didn't make it, he was not happy. He denied it. He got angry at me. He told me to just leave him and he would be okay. After I removed Mikey's body, Addison got even more upset. He cried. He yelled some more. He blamed me. Then I told him Mikey was in fishy heaven.
And then Addison was fine. He went back to watching Sparky swim around in all his not-dead glory. It was all so unpleasant, but heartening to realize my little boy was growing up. Every time I hear him sadly tell someone that Mikey died only to reassure them that he's in fishy heaven, it hits me that this boy understands the mystical finality of death a little too well. Happy holidays.
Colin, on the other hand, is grasping the concept of one-word sentences. He cracks me up, because he is repeating everything. Not sound-for-sound, but you can tell he knows what he's saying. It's off-the-charts cute. Seriously, our pediatrician doesn't normally tell us any percentiles for head size or weight or anything, but he did say that Colin was at the infinity percentile for cute. He's a doctor, who are we to argue?
But one thing he did almost made me break down and cry like a frightened puppy. I was in the kitchen. He wanted me to read him a book in the living room. Normally, he would just look up at me, extend both arms to full tip-toe height (just above counter level) and say, "Hold you." But this time, he just held up one tiny hand right up to mine and said, "Hand?" I grabbed it, and he walked me to the couch.
And that was awesome. Happy New Year, everybody.
Is it just me, or does it seem like Paul McCartney has a crush on the female version of his late fellow Beatle? Nancy Shevell, rumored to be heading to the chapel with Paul, bears a little too much resemblance to John Lennon for my liking. But, hey, maybe it's like that episode of Seinfeld when George dated the female Jerry. 
