Yes, I noticed that I’m not keeping even to my lackadaisical posting schedule (aim low!), November having been a month of silence here on the GusBlog. No particular reason — the holidays always generate pictures, of course, but also soak up all available time, with relentless but welcome family obligations that grow larger as time passes and the family expands. It is a season of appreciation that like all appreciations threatens to turn maudlin. Eternal vigilance, then.
As I type this it is Sunday evening, a little before ten. The house is quiet. It was a drenched, blustery day, the type that leaves all worn out and grateful to be housed at all. TDW went to bed early. I spent the last few hours cooking two chickens, making a couple of dishes that will keep our little household in a pleasant poultry haze for the week, and the kitchen is now clean, the dishwasher humming and gurgling. There is nothing for me to do before bed but fret mildly about my fantasy football team’s playoff hopes, pour and drink another homebrew, reread one of Neal Stephenson’s longer books, and for some appreciation of Crowded House’s newer works. I’ll get up in the morning, clothe and feed The Gus, take him to school, and then ride my bike to work. It will probably still be raining in torrents.
I am richer than anyone I know.
So let me type about the chiefest of my riches, The Gus. TDW and I both have well-developed senses of humor. But we were both surprised that at the tender age of two The Gus not only appreciates some of the broader forms of humor (pratfalls, most slapstick) he is actually a cunning jokester in his own right. Who would not crack up at his classic routine:
Me: The Gus, would you like some milk?
TG: No! (a grin sneaking out)
Me: Ok, no problem. [turns around to leave]
TG: Milk please!
Me: D’oh!
[laughter, applause]
I am his humble straight man.
Something about our nighttime routine: we go up to his room to wind down. We read a couple of books, then turn out the lights and sing a couple of songs before putting him down in his crib. Our last song is always a verse of “Goodnight Sweetheart” by The Spaniels, though of course I never knew it to be a Spaniels song until I got into doo-wop in my late twenties — before that I just knew it as one of the songs Potsie sang from the tiny stage in Al’s Diner, with Richie Cunningham wailing away on sax. In any event, the verse goes like this:
Goodnight sweetheart, well it’s time to go
Goodnight sweetheart, well it’s time to go
I hate to leave you but I really must say
Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight.
It’s a great song for even the tonally challenged among us.
So a few nights ago, TDW was putting The Gus down and was about to launch into the song when TG interrupted her. “No, Mama. Gus sing.” So he sang, in his own arrangement:
Good night fweet hot
night fweet hot
aaaahh aaaahh muh muh
fwwt hot good night
then he kissed TDW good night and reached for his crib. She put him down, and when she closed the door he was still humming.
