There was a time, a few years back, when Griffin would not allow us to use the word “joshing.” Kidding, teasing, joking, ribbing, making fun were all okay. But he would go ballistic if we told him we were just joshing with him. To this day I never use the word. To be honest, I don’t miss it much.
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Hope he doesn’t read this post. If he does, I’ll tell him it was all just in jest or good fun.
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I have a killer chest and head cold. Yup. Right now I am oozing and coughing germs all over my screen and key board. Regular readers know that, basically, all my internal organs are in a state of fairly rapid entropy for a 46 year old guy. However, I rarely get a cold. Got one now.
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I’m fairly certain you can’t catch it over the interwebs. But just to be sure, I would hit the Purell pretty hard after reading this post. I’m hoping to feel better soon since I’ve been ingesting gallons of our old family secret cold and cough remedy – Heroin and Robo DM Cocktails. I find that Black Tar Smack works best if the cough is in your upper chest. Go for the China White if it’s deep down.
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This is the first time I have been ambling around the house in about 24 hours and haven’t seen much of the kids. Popped my head to tell Lil Sis I love her and then went to do the same with Griffin. He was excited to see me and we embarked on this lovely conversation;
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Griffin: “Hey Daddy!! Why are you wearing a bathrobe?”
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Me: “Um, I’m sick. Been in bed for a solid day.”
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Griffin: “Oh no! Are you feeling better?”
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Me (Beaming from the apparent empathy): “I am Griff. I’m feeling a little better. Thank you so much for asking!”
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Griffin: “Okay. Enjoy your cold!”
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At this point he turned back to his computer to watch a You Tube video of some tornado destroying a trailer park in the Midwest circa 1950. Me? I’m just sitting here “enjoying” my cold.
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PS: No. My bathrobe is not a “shorty-robe.” That’s just disgusting.
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This is a picture of Paul Wight (ak.a. Big Show) I stole it from Wikipedia. Big Show is a professional wrestler who stands 7’0” tall and weighs 440 pounds. Give or take 50 pounds. Mr. Wight lives less than a few hours from me. So if he wants me to take this picture down, it will be taken down. Immediately. Other than this brief bio, Big Show’s need to be included in this blog will be revealed below.
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Saint Apollonia is apparently the patron saint of Dentists. True story. I see dentistry as a cult. Basically, you could be a non-cult-member, never go to see a Dentist in your life and lose your teeth at 60ish. The true Cult members, go for quarterly cleanings, suffer through root canals, have more cavities filled than they have teeth, and continually get berated for not flossing enough. Don’t even get me started on Wisdom Teeth. For all this loyalty and sacrifice, Cult members will lose their teeth at 70ish.
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Since I’m a parent, I have to pretend to be a member of the Cult and indoctrinate my kids or else Social Services may be at my doorstep before you can say, “Rinse and Spit.”. Stupid Social Services. So the kids have been avid cult members. Lil Sis finished her braces (maybe) and Griffin is still in “Phase 1” of Orthodontia Hell. Don’t know what “Phase 1” is, but I do know it costs $161.00 a month for 50 months.
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At this point in Phase 1, Griffin needs to have a bunch of teeth pulled and some sort of chain installed. Don’t ask me why this needs to be done. I am Cult member only for my kids. Anyhoo, for this procedure we need to see an oral surgeon. Probably costs a little less than a convertible Bentley but I’m sure it’ll be worth it. The procedure requires anesthesia. This means an IV. Griffin has never had an IV inserted and makes getting his finger pricked for a glucose strip test seem like a scene from Private Ryan. Not gonna be fun.
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I’m sure some of you who have smaller kids on the spectrum are saying, “That sucks. But you just have to hold them down for a few minutes and then the worst is over.” Uh huh. This is where Big Show enters our tale.
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They don’t call me Big Daddy for nothing. I tip the scales at near the big 300 (That’s 406 Kilometers for my British fans). Only I’m made mostly of Jelly Fish (38.2%) and Lard (96.77%). Griffin is like a Man-Boy as he approaches 16. He’s completely uncoordinated and could not physically or mentally hurt a fly. I’ve actually seen flies make Griffin cry. But he is large and he can flail his legs, arms and other seeming “unflailable” body parts like a bunch of drunken Ninjas at a Balsa Wood Convention. This is why I need to call in the big guns. Big Show!
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I just hope Big Show is available March 14 or I can see a lot of black eyes, bruised lips, and broken femur’s carried around by the oral surgeon, his staff, and any innocent bystanders.
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Call me Paul.
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I’m feeling a little nostalgic at the moment and want to take you all back to the mid-90s. After the age of the mullet, but before the diagnosis, therapies and mourning over dreams that would never be realized. After Nirvana but before the elevator videos, Wilford Brimley, and bizarre stims became our world. This story, although clearly about him, actually predates Griffin’s traumatic birth. If anything, the following bolsters my theory that there is something other worldly about the boy.
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In late ‘96, Mrs. Big Daddy and I decided it was time to start our family. Actually, it was mainly Mrs. Big Daddy who decided it was time. In hindsight, I guess I just wasn’t paying close attention when she told me she was tossing the birth control and that we were ready for a baby. We had only been married a few months but we earnestly thought we were prepared. After all, we were somewhat successfully raising a difficult cat with multiple personalities and, we reasoned, having a kid couldn’t be all that different. (Cue ominous music.)
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It was during this time that Mrs. Big Daddy’s Grandfather became terminally ill. This meant we needed to take several five hour road trips from our home to a tiny city called Holiday, Florida in late ‘96 and early ‘97. Ironically, Holiday is not known for its bustling tourism and hotel options were limited. On each of our visits we always checked into the same Best Western on Route 19.
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The theme of this particular motel was “Tahiti.” I think. There were Tiki Huts with fake grass roofs by the pool and plastic South Pacific artifacts all over the motel grounds. The rooms themselves were standard $39.99 per night motel fare. The cheap 1970s Brady Bunch Kitsch was kind of fun in a way. Most importantly, the price was right. Big Daddy was not yet rolling in book royalties back then.
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Without going into graphic detail, for some reason cheap motels help Big Daddy’s baby making skills. (Take a breath. It’s not that disgusting. I was actually quite the looker in those days.) Anyhoo, being eager, newlywed parents to be, we made the most of trips to the Tahitian Best Western that winter.
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On one of our trips we noticed something odd when exiting our room one morning. There was a three foot tall faux wooden figure in the garden area right outside our room. The statue was made to appear as though it was carved out of a log standing on its side. It had a flat head, long face and extremely stout body. (No, I was not staring in a reflection pond.) The plaque underneath the statue described our tacky friend as a Tahitian Fertility God. We were speechless. We didn’t notice the plastic gnome / deity on previous stays and did not see him upon check-in the previous night.
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My first thought was that this idol must be a horrifying sight for any high school senior who takes his date to this motel on prom night. My second thought was that this freaky little guy was facing the door to OUR room last night! I gulped, Mrs. Big Daddy took a picture, I made a lame joke, and we went to visit Grandpa in the hospital.
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As you probably already guessed, several weeks later the pregnancy test came back positive and Griffin was on his way into the world. Sometimes I think the gods must be smiling at what they have created. The picture of the God of Fertility is taped onto the first page of Griffin’s Baby Book.
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They say that having a child no more makes one a competent parent then having a car makes one a good driver. At least with a car you need to pass a road test and get auto insurance. With a kid like Griffin, we should have been required to get a pilot’s license and a pair of parachutes. Air traffic controllers giving us guidance from the tower would have been helpful too. Instead we had to fly solo directly into the eye of the storm.
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Griffin has a great sense of humor. He usually doesn’t tell jokes, but he acts silly for a laugh and he understands sarcasm. Maybe not all the subtle nuances and cleverness you all are used to in my poop and fart posts. But most of the time he can tell when we are teasing him.
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The other Friday evening, Lil Sis was at a sleepover, Mrs. Big Daddy was sound asleep, and Griffin was readying himself for bed. Since about 15 minutes had passed since my 4th “last” late night snack, I thought it time for a Turkey breast sandwich.
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My prose may be brilliant, but I am a bumbling idiot when it comes to figuring out how to open food packaging these days. There was some “easy open freshness seal” on the package of lunch meat, but I had to resort to opening it Neanderthal style. There was grunting and stabbing with primitive tools.
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As I was finally making my sandwich, Griffin came into the kitchen for a glass of water and, with comic timing that would put Jay Leno to shame, he said;
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“What is all the noise in here? Are you having a party?”
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Okay. So it wasn’t A-List material. But coming from Griffin, it was truly spectacular. I was still chuckling as he pranced (yes he prances) off to brush his teeth. No more than a few seconds later, I heard him drop his plastic toothbrush holder on the tile floor of the bathroom. It made a racket. So, being the comic genius I am, I made way over to the bathroom and said;
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“What is all the noise in here? Are you having a party?”
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It’s what we refer to in the comedy biz as a “callback.” Griffin and I started to laugh hysterically! I think he got the irony of the situation. Griffin telling a goofy joke is nothing new. However, sharing in some irony with me was tremendous.
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He’s always understood the sarcasm (survival instinct in our family). A few weeks ago he showed me some empathy when I was in the hospital. And now, irony!
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Who would’ve thought?
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