"Daddy - my finger smells."
No. I'm not smelling it. You can thrust it at me all you want. But if you think I'm sniffing something that even you - a two year old that sometimes (as infrequent as it is) chooses to just shit himself - is holding as far away from your own body as is physically possible, then you are sorely mistaken. While there is a modicum of sense in the logic that I should probably have some knowledge of what you've been sticking your finger in that needs to not smell - I'd much rather not. So I'm giving it a pass on that one. Especially considering that at that point you've spent every moment of the morning sat on the couch. So I've no idea where it's been. The only thing of note that has occurred so far is that you've repeated, "the ball is done daddy!!" about ten times. I don't know what that means - and I'm almost certain I don't want to. Instead that finger is getting washed - unsniffed - with a strongly scented soap until I'm certain that if I'm lynched with it in a few minutes that it won't be rancid. And for safe measure why don't we go to the toilet and clean all your naughty bits before getting dressed.
Oh - and before I forget - Happy Halloween!! I know - you're probably thinking, "it can't be Halloween - I'm not dressed like a twat." Just to be on the safe side (especially if you're in central NY and headed to a job that requires professional dress) I'd check in the mirror again. But here at Casa Cheesestick it's apparently Halloween (Aside - if this blog ever get's picked up by PBS and made into a period-drama it'll be called "Herpes House." Also - it won't be titled a "period-drama" because that tends to evoke images of women talking about discharge to me). For some random reason yesterday my daughter decided it was Halloween. I'd inflated a really naff old pool with a blow-up palm tree in it - the hope being that the kids would be mesmerized by it while I picked up all the crap behind my house (bought a hose-caddy - that's how bloody suburban I am - not that I own one but that I call it a "hose caddy") and mowed the lawn. My daughter asked me to take a video first - at which point she decided we should all pretend to be Halloween monsters. Take note of what may be the worst scary-monster names in history. Also note that my job appears to be to go "ooooh." Not like a ghost though - more like an effeminate timid chimp.
A little while later she'd decided we should all be bats - using a towel each as wings. My son seemed to interpret his new role as to wrap himself up and then lick electronic equipment (although to be fair he does that quite often anyway).
Oddly later in the day we were at a garage sale and my daughter bought a carrier bag filled with Halloween tat. Amusingly the person running the sale was giving it free bags - or "prizes" - to all the kids who showed up. They were basically filled with the unsellable guff that wasn't out on tables. So my daughter had a brown paper lunch bag filled with a dirty plastic McDonalds dollar meal toy, a no longer working day-glo stick, some chintzy toy jewelry and a picture frame. My son got much the same thing - except his McDonalds toy was alleged to be specifically for boys (the lady at the sale told us she'd designed the bags that way).
Naively (it turns out) I suspected the whole thing to have been a Twelve Monkeys-style ruse - as both prize bags also contained various bottles of unnamed liquids. I wasn't going to pry them open and release a man-made global mega-virus destroying most of humankind. Since then my wife has briefly glanced at them and told me they are filled with bubble liquids. She even claims that there are tiny bubble wands in there.
Right. That's exactly what they want you to think.