The Boy

My son, Jackson. My favorite son in the whole wide world. Even if unborn.

Watch Out For The Ooof! (Sordid Stories #2)

Apr 9th

Posted by JB in Sordid Stories I've Told My Children

3 comments

“Pirate Omar” is a recurring character in my daughter’s favorite story requests. He’s basically a happy-go-lucky, friendly, adventurous pirate who sleeps in his own bed (on his pirate ship, of course) all night long.

This particular story has only been told to my 2 year old son once. And yet he repeats the fun part every chance he gets.

Watch Out For The Ooof!

Once upon a time, Pirate Omar wanted to see if he could sail all the way across the ocean to the clouds far, far away.

He sailed all day and all night, and all the next day. After all that sailing he was very tired, so he went to sleep in his bed.

The next morning he woke up when he heard a sailor yell “Watch out for the Oof!”.

Pirate Omar sat straight up in his bed, curious about the funny thing the sailor said.

“Watch out for the Oof!”, he heard another sailor shout.

Pirate Omar jumped out of bed, ran up onto the deck and looked around. Everywhere was foggy and gray. He couldn’t see very much – they must have reached the clouds!

Just then, another sailor called out, “Pirate Omar! Watch out for the”

OOOF!*

A big fluffy cloud had bonked right into Pirate Omar’s head and knocked him right down. He slept all day and all night again.

  • “OOOF!” is only fully appreciated when you whack your sleepy child in the head with a pillow. At which point they’re no longer sleepy.
  • The first time you tell this story, it’s better to hit yourself with the pillow… hitting an unsuspecting, sleepy child might be considered abuse. It’ll certainly incite crying. Subsequent retellings are fair game for whacking children.

Odds ‘n Ends

Jul 21st

Posted by JB in Code

No comments

Failing Quickly in ASP when your database is missing.
Frustrated with ASP’s stubborn refusal to honor the ado.connection’s .connectiontimeout setting for an oledb connection, I searched all over Google trying to find a way to shorten the amount of time ASP / ADO will look for a database that’s missing. Finally found it. Here’s the deal:
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Dr. Jackson and Mr. Grunt

May 29th

Posted by JB in The Boy

3 comments

I have pictures of my son like this:

but it’s like pictures of someone else’s kid.

That is not my child. Mine doesn’t know how to smile. There is only grunting, sucking on a boob, sucking on a bottle but wanting a boob, grunting, screaming, and getting ready to scream. And grunting.

I’d show you a picture of the real boy I know, but no picture of him screaming conveys that it’s gone on for 53 minutes at 11:48pm on a Thursday night. I could get video, but you wouldn’t want to watch. He’s been held upright, face-down, right-armed, left-armed, both-armed, neither-armed, close to me, away from me, in a rocking chair, in the driveway, and by his Mama. Bathed, bounced, swung, jiggled, swayed, tickled, stroked, patted, covered and bare. Makes no difference.

A picture can’t tell you he rejects his bottle (every pathetic formula we’ve tried), and uses Mom as a pacifier, which does not pacify her. A frozen image of screwed-up, red-faced angst does not capture the sound of choking and coughing on phlegm from his head cold (Attention, Family: Kiss my kids on the mouth again after EVER having had a cold, and I will murder you. No-one will ever find your body). You also can’t hear him straining, grunting, screaming in agony at his granite-hard belly, or the amazingly mature sound of his gassy relief. Those sound like mine. And mine sound like my father before me, and probably his father before him.

Did I do this too? Is this God’s payout to my parents on their own investment in suffering? No wonder every parent wants grandchildren — payback’s a bitch, and they’ve been banking on it since day 3 of my life.

P reminds me that Sarah did this too. I don’t remember. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome has wiped my memory. Still, I would much rather deal with her current nasty looks and messes than the screaming (this is a mild one):

Hers turn off at night.

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