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I'm No Medusa, Yo

Sometimes it's parents that say and do the darnedest things...

Like most family units, we have our frivolous banter and unrehearsed routine. Each improvisational interaction is personalized for the diverse character actors we’ve assembled for our home life, live theatre experience.

When one’s children are comfortable sharing their minds and personalities, the audience around them is blessed with many memorable, life-enhancing experiences. Valuable lessons are aplenty. From these, children learn to give, as well as to take. I count myself as one of those so blessed. My kids do and say the darnedest things, but they have learned, their father does too.

Halloween is coming, so I’ve been told. The primary and secondary foci for my children are how they will dress, and how many homes we can hit up for their loot of excessively salty and sugary goodness. Exceeding the previous year’s haul is always their modus operandi. And once again, playing the pivotal role of overflow candy, pillow case-toting pack mule, I’ve been cast for that beastly burden.

This year, my daughter was extremely eager and started early - she’s masquerading as Medusa. I’ll take credit for that.

Disheveled hair in rat's nest, plate of spaghetti, or intertwined dancing snakes form, begs to be acknowledged, mocked, and addressed. I have set forth and done so on numerous occasions. After one such recent observation, my little girl yo’d me, informing me that she’s no Medusa, ending her verbal barrage with an attitudinal, yo. She’s never yo’d me before. It was funny as hell. You, my sweet, are most welcome for the inspiration.

My son is more Halloween-experienced, but this season, he’s not as focused. I suspect his trick-or-treat enthusiasm has waned.

He’s a year older and another year wiser. He’s seen their future stash in the stacked towers of big boxes in the big box stores. He receives a weekly allowance. I’m sure he’s connected the easier path to cavity-hypertension-obesity dots. One-stop shopping. Cut out the house-to-house exercise middleman.

However, for my daughter’s safety and enjoyment sake, and my son’s future residency status, he is now wisely reconsidering his options.

I’ve informed him that if he doesn’t select a costume soon, for him I will, and his sibling-escorting outfit will consist of only a flesh-colored t-shirt with the words, Left Testicle conspicuously emblazoned on the front side and back. Unlike Medusa, but certainly like snakes in the grass, his t-shirt and I now silently await his procrastinating behind with giddy anticipation.

 

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