We sat on the couch, the five of us, silently enjoying the holiday classic, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. A family favorite that for us, always ushers in the Christmas season. Our children, ages ten, six, and three, enjoy it almost as much as their parents! Well, almost.
In the beginning, if you recall, there is a snowman narrator, played by Burl Ives. He tells the story and sings irritating little songs, like "Silver and Gold." Well, Marcus (the three-year-old) watched him intently in the beginning. Didn't say a word. Later, when he popped up again with his umbrella - you know, after one of the scenes with the Bumble (My personal favorite), Marcus said in a very solumn voice, "I hate that fat guy." It broke us all up.
Well, "A Father's Odyssey" is really only half the story and from time to time I may post the other half, "A Mother's Trip" (psychedelic reference intended, brought on by sleep deprivation and too many diaper fumes). And three kids is definately a "trip" but also a whole lot of fun! Our youngest, as you can tell from this blog, has taught us more than one lesson in patience and humor (mostly the latter). We have known this from the time he was 5 months old when a single fart could produce a contagious belly laugh that would last upwards to 5 minutes. Of course these quips are unintentional ("I hate that fat guy") but none the less hilarious. My little story is about a certain burial that took place in our front yard. And before you get all freaked out and stop reading, let me explain. We had had our house on the market for five months without a single offer and I was deperate (no I did not kill my real estate agent). My sister-in-law suggested we get a statue of St. Josef and bury him in our yard upside down (an old wives tale about how St. Josef will bring you good luck and big real estate money). Being superstitious, I thought, "What the heck". The day St. Josef arrived in the mail was exciting for me but I couldn't seem to get anyone else interested except for my youngest. I explained the whole thing in three year old terms and he seemed to understand. We marched out to the front yard with St. Josef in his small hands. I dug the hole and he placed the statue in. We were both satisfied and content with our mission complete. When Brad came home that day I proudly said to Marcus, "tell daddy what we did today". And he proudly replied, "we buried OZAM in the front yard". Apparently, "St. Josef" is hard to pronounce when you are three. Brad looked at me as if I was the caretaker of some pet cemetary or a serial killer. I just smiled and said, "Don't worry honey, OZAM is going to help us sell this house!"
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