Word Whammer, Indeed.

Mrs. P bought the Fletchmonster this LeapFrog® jibber today. We had one of the 'fridge-front' ones a couple of years ago, but the dog chewed up all of the consonants. (Vowels are presumably less tasty.) That one just sounded out the letters -- this new, 'improved' version helps with word recognition for three-letter words.

Mrs. P: Fletchy, why don't you show your daddy what I got you?

The Fletchmonster pulls his toy out and hits the button.


Word Whammer: Let's spell a word. W-A-R. War.

(Mrs. P and I exchange glances.)

Prego: What? Was this f*cking toy designed by Republicans?
Mrs. P: I didn't like that word.

Not that this necessarily warrants a boycott of LeapFrog® products, but you'd think they might have programmed it to start off with "FUN" or some sh*t.

Iron Tyke

The O-Dog and the Fletchmonster are on that "superhero" kick that lasts between ages... oh, two to six or seven. I was hoping to avoid it, but my sister and her kids weren't. A couple visits to Canada and a coustume or two later and it's Dark Knight this and Spider that.

It's not that big a deal, actually. At least the $25-30 costumes they get for Halloween get 360 days usage.

The Fletch has recently invented a new kind of hero.

His uncle came to visit recently to join us for dinner. As he enters the living room he quickly picks up the O-Dog to tickle him and roughhouse. The O-Dog, laughs hysterically, yelling "Fletch. Save me. SAVE ME." At which point the Fletch lunges for my brother's legs.

I leave my brother to his own devices as I go upstairs to get the boys' socks and a couple of clean shirts.

When I come downstairs five minutes later, they're all sitting on the couch calmly watching TV. My brother casually asks me, "Fletch likes to defend his brother, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I reply. "They like to fight 'bad guys' and all that superhero crap."

"Because the little f*cker bit me."

Mandibula?
The Chomper?
Masticator?

Now that's my kind of hero.

O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and Arborcide

The boys and I took a walk to the Lexington General Store around the corner, to haul home a Douglas Fir for the holiday season. Part of the charm of living where we live is that we can take a short stroll with the Radio Flyer wagon and haul back anything from a couple of pizzas to a snowboard or a chainsaw. In this case, all we needed was the tree and a half-gallon of milk.


After we got the dead tree home, O-Dog had to leave for yet another birthday party, leaving the Fletchmonster and I to "hang like gentlemen" at home. He took it a bit better than he did last week, and spent the evening entertaining me on the piano while I stood the tree up and put the lights on.


The scope and breadth of the average two year-old's experiences were glaringly evident, as the Fletchmonster announced "This one's called, "I Gotta Go Poopee and Pee-Pee," before he starts pounding on the ivories.

Once the tree and lights were set up, we waited for the O-Dog to come home to help with the ornaments, lets we cause a meltdown of the "I wanted to help with the ornaments!" persuasion. Basically, neither of the boys showed any interest, once the Batman & Robin ornaments were in place, leaving Mrs. P and I to do the bulk of the work.



You'll notice I took care to ensure that my favourite ornament, Oscar the Grouch, was placed prominently at approximate eye level. I do base my life on his teachings, you know.

Like a Caged Rat, eh?

This past Sunday the O-Dog had a doubleheader of birthday parties. Unfortunately, the first one was one that the Fletchmonster had to sit out. His heartbreaking cries of "I want to go with mommy and O.D." made the daddy-tears well up.

"Don't worry, Fletch. We'll hang out like gentlemen."
"I don't want to hang out like gentlemen. I want to go with mommy. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

As Mrs. P and the O-Dog left, I was left with a wailing two year-old.

Any parent knows that the quickest way to stop a kid from crying is to put him in the car and tell him you're going to buy him something. I thought I'd take a quick jaunt to Ft. Erie in Canada to buy myself some hockey elbow pads (the cheap, sh*tty pair I currently own did little to protect me from a weak-ass shot from the point). Also, the Fountain Plaza ice rink should be opening any day and it's time to throw the Fletch into the size 7 Bauer skates. I figured I'd get him a helmet while I was there.

For the geographically impaired, Ft. Erie is on the other side of the Niagara River from Buffalo, NY. We live five minutes from the Peace Bridge and the Canadian Tire store is about another 8 minutes away. Going through Canadian customs is usually a breeze, so I figured the whole trip might take an hour or less...

I turned to take the bridge and got an eye-full of Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhk!

There was a back up of about two to three miles of what my Canuck brother-in-law calls "cheap-ass Canadians" coming into the U.S. to take advantage of our crappy Crap-mas sales over the holiday weekend.

I felt like that Flick kid in "A Christmas Story" as soon as he put his tongue on the lamp post.

"Stuck? Stuck! Waah-hah haaaaaaaW! (painful wails continue).

Short of making an international incident causing u-turn in the middle of the bridge (brown people like me get shot first and get questions asked later when doing anything unusual), I bit my lip and headed into Ontario.

Customs Official: Purpose of your visit.
Prego: Well, I was just going to take a quick trip over to Canadian Tire, but...(Customs Official winces and grimaces...) I think I picked a bad day...
Customs Official: Yeah. I'd say so.
Prego: ... so I'm probably going to pay a visit to my sister in Thorold, ON.
Customs Official: Yeah. You might want to extend your stay a little. Go ahead.

I drove the 20 minutes to Thorold, short of breath... suffocating from feeling trapped in the land of hosers, curling and (shudder...) politesse.

In the meanwhile, the Fletch was chatting me up from the back seat.
"You getting me a hockey helmet? Where's the store, daddy? Am I going to see my cousins, daddy?"

"Yes, buddy. We're close. Yes, buddy."

I pulled into Canadian tire and browsed the aisles for hockey gear. Bingo. On sale, $16 cdn for a pair of elbow pads. Sweet. Now where are those helmets?

I located them in the next aisle. $50 cdn? Jesus! I put one on the Fletch's head, at his request. The vision of my handsome toddler behind the facemask evoked fantasies of the Fletch-Master General leading the Maple Leafs to their first Stanley Cup win since 1967... or becoming a stalwart defenceman for the Edmonton Oilers...

Sh*t like that? 50 scoots is a baaaahr-gain. In the end, it was almost worth getting stuck in Canada, eh?

For the record, I paid my sister and her family a 40 minute visit before I decided to head back to the U.S. I managed to spend an hour and a half in Niagara Falls, inching my way towards and across the Rainbow Bridge, trying to maintain my composure. Remember, brown people like me get shot and get asked questions later.

Thanks...

... to myself for leaving the digital camera in the back seat of the car.

An O-Dog self-portrait...

...and a snapshot of his brother.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving holiday.