Thinking About Baseball
I brought in a box of winter clothing from the garage. It gets fairly cold here for L.A. county. Our summers are hot and long and our winters are short and chilly. It may get to the mid-50's during the day, but it gets well below freezing pretty quick once the sun goes down. I know, I know, you live somewhere colder, whatever.
I set the box of clothes down in the playroom and left it for someone, i.e., my wife, to attend to. I'm just the muscle (all muscle, ladies). Apparently, hidden deep within the recesses of the container there were other types of "clothing." I'm talking lingerie here, people.
For some reason my wife had decided that packing away silk panties with a box of scarves and furry hats was a good idea. I took it to mean I might get some this winter.
However, it wasn't my wife that took on the duty of sorting through the garments but rather Atticus. At 4-years-old and loving all things that can be construed as Christmas he took it upon himself to dress him and his little brother in all manner of bundled layers. They looked like Ewoks that had dropped serious dime at the GAP. They were content.
And quiet, which of course worried me. I walked into the playroom and was faced with something that I wasn't expecting, a four-year-old boy struggling to pull a garter belt on over his pajamas.
He looked at me and laughed. "Don't tell Mommy," he said.
I turned and walked out of the room, took a sip of my beer and yelled back to him, "your secret is safe with me."
Two minutes later he came running through the house adorned in said garter. He had a baseball in his hand and he stood in the hallway waiting for someone to laugh at his antics.
I walked towards him, stoic, and as I passed him, with his big eyes full of frolic and trouble, I pat him on the butt and told him what every man should tell another in a situation like that, "the rose goes in the front, big guy."
He took off down the hallway, running, laughing and adjusting. I had another beer.