Sept. 23, 2010
My boy, Oliver…I might have mentioned him before a couple of times. You see, he’s got this one little problem.
He’s a goof.
Not the clumsy kind (though he does get the drunk walks when he’s tired), it’s the goof on purpose kind. At 15 months he’s already got a sense of humour (I fear closer to his Mother’s odd-ball stylings then his father’s traditional).
Exhibit A – He laughs if I laugh. Hysterically.
On this particular night Bo was working late (London again, I believe, but it was a month ago now and my memory struggles to go back any further then the breakfast I didn’t eat but wish I had. Wouldn’t waffles have been great today?).
Any way, back on topic. Oliver and I decided to have meatballs for dinner. When his face was adiquatly covered in sauce, and his mouth full of meatball, I decided to do a goose honk of a laugh, as loud as I could, and 6 inches from his face.