The kiddo keeps aging.
He used to be this:
At 7, Gavin no longer speaks with soft Rs. He still loves cats, and kisses pictures of kittens. He was very upset by the episode of Star Wars: the Clone Wars with the nose-worms, and still needs someone to sleep with him at night so the "men with axes in the closet" don't get him. 
The advent calender coughed up cash and omelets
This was our first year with real children and a real kid party. With a piñata. And pizza. And Gavin punching his 'girlfriend' in the head from the bottom of a 4-person dogpile.
Gavin invited the tiny redhead who is the constant butt of jokes and kid cruelty, on which I have ranted frothily. One of his friends groaned as she climbed from the car, and Gavin said, "Oh, come on, she's a good kid. My mom used to be called 'Holly Germs', and she turned out ok. Besides, she'll grow up to be really pretty." He listens!
Leif went crazed with cardboard bloodlust, and only got clocked in the head with a bat once.
We overloaded the piñata and had to hoist it up with rubber tubing. It wasn't quite as hard to bludgeon open as the time someone made one out of chicken wire, but it was a close thing.
The kiddo made sure Leif had a present to unwrap, too, and the little plastic toaster drew as much excitement as the remote-control R2-D2. First graders are fun because there is as much baby left in them as cursing big kid. There was a mini cake wreck and cupcakes, Mike made the pizza dough.
7 is also the legal age for becoming a motorcycle passenger. His friends were very impressed.
And then there was a Christmas program to attend. Gavin danced.
Gavin did not dance.
9 kids. Pandemonium. Sticks. Screams, bursting balloons. Beer left in freezer, leaking, needing drinkening. Sleepy now.
No comments:
Post a Comment