Say it, don't spray it

I never realized how easy it is to set a bad example for a child. I guess I should have had some clue because my childhood imaginary friend, Honka, was constantly a bad influence. I distinctly remember him forcing me to misbehave and then disappearing at just the right moment so that I would have to take the blame. But now it seems that I’m the bad influence, and I have a sinking feeling that it will only get worse as time goes by.

When Suttie started blowing raspberries around six months ago, I thought it was the cutest thing ever. So, I encouraged him to do it and would prompt him by blowing raspberries of my own. Now, it’s all he does. We’re in the process of trying to elicit his first real word, with little luck. Every time I say, “Suttie, say ‘Mama,’” he looks me squarely in the eye and blows a huge raspberry. I’m beginning to think that this is a permanent condition. When he’s sixteen, he’ll walk out the door and say, “Bye Dad, bye Bbbwwffff” (which is my interpretation of what a raspberry sounds like).

At this point, we’re trying to undo some of the damage that we’ve done by telling him “no” or “that’s enough” when he gets into a particularly violent episode of mouth-blowing. It doesn’t always work. This morning, as I was feeding him breakfast, I again tried to coax the word “mama” from his lips. He responded by blowing a huge, cereal and slobber-filled raspberry right at my face. So, today we work on “mama,” and tomorrow we work on manners.

"Tell me about the rabbits, George."

“Last Saturday, we went to the Tate Farms pumpkin patch and had a blast!” At least that’s what I would have said if we hadn’t chosen to go on a 40 degree, rainy day with a 20 mph North wind. Now, it’s widely known that the O’Neals are a luckless bunch, so I don’t know why I thought things would work out any differently. Suttie spent 90% of the trip in his stroller buried beneath several layers of blankets. He was so tightly bound that he was sweating. As for the rest of us, the only liquid being expelled from our bodies was the snot that was flowing freely from our frostbitten noses.

Our first stop was the petting zoo. Do you know what will break your heart faster than a 2 lb. fluffy white bunny? Watching said bunny hanging limply in the clutches of a chubby, brown-haired girl with coke-bottle glasses whose lens could easily double as paper weights. Yeah, old Marcie (think Peanuts) had Fluffy in an unbreakable sleeper hold that could only be rivaled by Lennie Small. Fearing the safety of the other bunnies, I instinctively grabbed one to show to Suttie, putting it only close enough for him to brush with his finger tips (any closer and it would have been in danger of a fate far worse than his dangling friend). After the rabbits, we looked at the pigs and a llama. Then we came the goat pen, which we entered to let Suttie get a closer look. Immediately, a goat came up to me and started trying to eat the fringe of my scarf, upon which I said, “Listen, I know everybody likes Ann Taylor, but unless you have a piece of hay made of cashmere in that stack, you best step off.” Or at least that’s what I would have said if I wasn’t too busy saying, “Quit eating my scarf, you f*%& goat!” while standing in the middle of twenty or more impressionable youths.

However, despite the miserable weather and the goat attacks, I did learn an important lesson during our outing: a boy can grow into a man, but he will forever be captivated by excavation equipment and fire trucks. As we made our way to the car, stopping at every gratuitous photo op that presented itself, I noticed that Sutton’s eyes were transfixed on something behind me and to the right. It was an antique firetruck. For the next five pictures, I not only had to worry about capturing the attention of my restless 7 month old (whose attentions had undoubtedly returned to the squeezable quality of the bunnies), but I also had to threaten my husband with a trip to Hobby Lobby or the rental of a Matthew McConaughey movie to get him to look at the camera. Needless to say, by the end of our 20-minute trip, I went home thoroughly exhausted and showing signs of acute pneumonia.

Disclaimer: Our miserable trip was the result of our own stupidity (90% mine, 10% also mine) in picking what was basically a winter’s day to spend time outside. It is no way reflects on the quality of the Tate Farms Pumpkin Patch. In fact, despite the weather, we still had fun and got some great pictures (which was the whole reason for going).