The Scallion

The Greenhalgh's Most Trusted and Satirical News Source

Sam Goes Down the Blue Slide!

Graduating from the eighteen-inch high “frog slide” at the pool, Sam finally attempted the much larger blue slide, which is six feet high.

“When he first went down, it was pretty slow,” Erin said. “He used his feet as brakes and stopped himself at the bottom, then changed his mind, and when he realized it was too slippery to climb back up he just slid into the pool—and loved it!”

He went thirty more times that first day. Witnesses say that Nate, who was waiting safely at the edge of pool next to the ladder, said, “Good job, Sam! I’m so proud of you!” each time Sam went down. Each time. And each time, Sam replied, “Thank you, Nate.”

Later that week, Sam was jumping in the pool to Erin without his floaties.

Nate, meanwhile, has committed to wearing his floaties until age twelve. When asked why, he cited safety concerns.

Nate Kills His First Fly

Despite constant pleas to Nate and Sam to shut the garage door, Erin and Tighe’s home is plagued with houseflies. While it’s a minor annoyance for the couple, it terrifies Nate and Sam.

“They always call us in to kill them,” Tighe told reporters. “Finally I had them watch ‘The Karate Kid’ to show them that it’s possible for kids to kill flies.”

“That was my first fly!” Nate declared just before dinner Thursday night.

Tighe congratulated him and told him to wash his hands. After several minutes of waiting at the dinner table, Sam, Erin, and Tighe began to get impatient when Nate finally arrived at his seat.

“I washed my hands. And then I had to pee. And then I had to wash my hands again,” he explained when asked about the delay.

“Honestly, I think the fly must have been nearing comatose, it was so slow and lethargic,” a witness said, speaking on the condition of anonymity.

The fly’s corpse, mutilated beyond recognition, was removed from the house. It is the policy of this news source not to release the name of the deceased until the next of kin has been notified.

Bunk Beds Arrive at House!

The city of Cleveland went without a championship for fifty-two years. The Starks were kept out of Winterfell for six years. Nate and Sam were in their bunk beds for twenty-five minutes that first night.

After much labor and four trips to the hardware store on Saturday afternoon, Tighe completed assembly of the newly arrived bunk beds, all while Nate lectured on the hierarchy of big brothers on the top bunk and little brothers on the bottom.  According to Nate this system is stricter than social castes India, or at least stricter than cafeteria seating in American middle schools. Sam, just thrilled to be included, expressed mild concern that the bottom bunk is “scary.”

These fears were realized at bedtime when the bottom was darker than he’d imagined and he refused to stay there. Nate, claiming he was unable to sleep without Sam, also retreated to his old bed in his old bedroom. Reports suggest that although they have yet to sleep in the bunk beds, they are a great place to play.

Nate Tries Steak

Related article: Worried Erin googles “preschoolers heart attacks cholesterol”

Entering the summer grilling season, Erin and Tighe have committed to having steaks on Sunday evenings. As per their nightly dinner routine, they offered Nate a bite of their cuisine—much more adventurous than his dinosaur chicken nuggets.

To Erin’s surprise, Nate said yes. “I was shocked,” she said, “I kept thinking, ‘what’s he up to? What’s his angle here? Do I really want to share my steak with him?’”

“I liked it, I really liked it!” Nate lied. He even ate a second piece just to cement his deception.

When asked for comment, Erin contemplated adjusting the weekly grocery budget. “I mean, odds are he’ll never eat it again, so I think we’re ok.”

Family Prepares for Long Drive East

Tighe refuses to spring for DVD player repair; Erin anxious

“We’ll just download a bunch of new movies onto their Kindles. And I’ll get a new XM radio subscription for us. Plus, I just bought the audio version of The Girls on Audible,” Tighe is reported to have told Erin.

“But the sum of all that is probably more than the cost of the repairs,” Erin countered through her lawyer.

A neutral third-party is still researching the total expenses for all options. Meanwhile, Erin will frequent area dollar stores to stock up on snacks and new books and toys.

Sam’s Potty-training Set for Late Summer

After months of research and planning, Erin has scheduled Sam’s potty-training for the second half of July. “I mean, I just have to bite the proverbial bullet and do it. At least I hope it’s just a proverbial bullet. That would be such a metallic taste.”

Sam has to be potty-trained to start school in August, so a firm deadline exists. Sitting around in a poopy diaper doesn’t seem to faze him, witnesses report. And each time someone makes a reference to him pooping and peeing in a toilet, Sam simply laughs. “And it’s an evil laugh,” Erin said. “I’m just going to have to do the three day thing: pump him full of fluids, sit him on the pot every twenty minutes, and hope for the best.”

She remains unsure of whether a sticker chart tactic or jellybean bribe will work for Sam. “He’s just so stubborn. But I did read a case about a little boy who found success by bringing his dog into the bathroom to show him his ‘presents.’ That might work for Sam.”

When pressed, Wally refused to comment and directed questions to his lawyers.

Toe-kissing and Clean-up on a Summer Morning

“Sam, I have kissed so many of your fucking toes!”

And yes, I really did say “fucking.” But I was in the bathroom and Nate and Sam were in the dining room, so I don’t think they heard me.

I was just so sick of kissing his toes. But it didn’t matter—he wandered in red-faced and crying, “You kiss my toes, please, Mom?”

I groaned and leaned down, my face to his feet. The image is very biblical.

“This toe?”

“No, this one!” It didn’t matter which toe I had selected, he would have indicated that a different one hurt and needed a healing kiss. I’d already kissed at least three of them.

I kissed the toe he was pointing to without emotion. I was no longer impressed with my magical curing powers. “There. All better!”

“No, this one!” Now he was pointing to his opposite foot. He’s got to be kidding me.

“Mom, can you please put tape on the floor so we can bowl?”

Nate. He emphasized the word “please” because he’d made this request several times already this morning.

I kissed all five of the toes in one drawn out, sweeping motion.

“There, all better, Sam. Let’s go help Nate.”

I grabbed the tape from one of our many junk drawers and knelt down with them in the middle of the hardwood floor in the foyer.

“Look, it goes four, three, two, one.” I placed a small square of tape on the floor indicating where each dollar-store bowling pin should go. But really, we’ve been over this so many times. How hard can it be? The rows go four, three, two, one. Count backwards. Make a triangle.

I was fed up. It was late in the morning and it was hot. We had errands to run and I wanted to go to the pool. I didn’t even care what we did as long as we were either productive or got to cool down and be social. Nate and Sam, on the other hand, were still in their pajamas, and there were toys covering every inch of floor space on the first floor. And now they were adding bowling pins to the mix. Wally was having trouble finding a good place to lie down. 

My goal this summer is to get them to clean up. And maybe not to even take out all the toys to begin with. We’d already purged a trash bag full of toys the day before. And we set aside Nate’s sacred toys—mostly Ninja Turtles—in a small yellow trundle case.  My hope was that instead of “needing” to find a specific toy and dumping out all our toy bins and baskets, like a junkie urgently seeking a fix, he could go straight to the caboodle kit and find the precious toy.

I was wrong. He still dumps out everything. Everything: Lego’s, wooden train tracks, Duplo’s, puzzle pieces, Even some of Wally’s old chew toys somehow find their way into Nate’s disarray.

So, because I’m goal-oriented and stubborn, I was determined not to leave the house until they had cleaned up their mess that morning.

And yes, I’ve tried games and tricks, anything just shy of an actual bribe. I’ve even tried—and I’m semi-embarrassed to admit this—putting the cleaning-the-nursery scene from Mary Poppins while we cleaned up. It resulted in a down-the-rabbit-hole stream of Disney YouTube videos. By the end, all three of us were laying on the couch shoveling handfuls of popcorn into our mouths.

Anyway Sam usually falls for those coercive maneuvers I read about in parenting magazines, but Nate is the Master of Manipulation himself —an actual certification—so there is no chance of me winning that one.

With Nate, I just need to be a slave driver.

“All you do is put this stuff in there! And that stuff in there!” I pointed to the many baskets and buckets where they store their toys. “It should take three minutes!”

“Why three minutes?” Nate inquired.

“I don’t know,” I began questioning myself. As I usually do in a conversation with Nate. Why did I pick three? Usually, I favor even numbers. I could have said four or two. Or even ten, they don’t even know how long a minute is. Well Sam might. Because it’s how long he usually spends in time-out. When I can get him to stay put. He never stays put! Time-out is not effective if they don’t stay put!

Ugh—another rabbit hole of insecure inner-dialoging! Must. Stop.

“And tomorrow night, you’re having a babysitter!” I declared. Kind of a random statement, but it helped me feel in control. Triumphant.

“Which one?” Nate said coldly.

“Kat. She’s never babysat you before, but you’ll like her.”

“Like an actual cat? You mean Garfield?”

Garfield is one of his heroes at the moment. So much so that I recently served lasagna for dinner on a 95+ degree day because Nate convinced me he’d love it.

He didn’t. Obviously.

Anyway—back to the clean-up.

“Whoever puts the most toys in the baskets…”

I was getting desperate, my mind was racing as fast as it could. Which is about the speed of…um…hmm…I don’t know. As fast as something really fast.

“…gets a…treat in his lunch!”

Great, a bribe. I’m so pathetic.

“Mom, what treat are you going to put in our lunches?”

Crap. I was hoping he hadn’t heard me. I don’t even think I have any treats. Nate and I have had so many debates about what constitutes a “treat.” And it has to be something that won’t melt in the sun at the pool.

And then, of course, could I really only give it to one of them? How was I supposed to know which child put the most toys in the basket? I was holed up in the kitchen, my fortress of solitude.

I walked into the room to check progress and found Sam, sprawled on the couch with a bowl of blueberries watching the US Open. He looked like Al Bundy.  At least blueberries are brain food. Whatever that means.

“MOM! WHY ARE YOU NOT HELPING ME?”

Groan.

As usual, just when I start seriously considering putting them up for adoption, they get it together and redeem themselves. Clean-up happened and I even had an extra moment to Windex some syrup streaks off the TV. But why do they have to drive me to that point every day? We did make it to the pool that day. I packed their lunches and handed them each a treat—two gummy worms—as we headed out the door. Easier than lasagna.

Things Are Getting Weird Around Here

Things are getting weird around here.

And not just because Nate’s been wearing a snorkeling mask and snorkel around the house. Or because Sam’s been addressing strangers as “cookie.” Or that Sam just gave his first ever eye-roll during one of Nate’s lectures. It was a lecture about snorkeling.

But weirder still is Nate’s devotion to his “guys.” Nate and Sam both have a squad of stuffed animals. Sam’s is a rotating cast, depending on his mood and which ones are available.

I don’t know if that has any implications for his future relationships or not. I mean, I’m not looking ahead to his life partnership yet, but I am concerned for his preschool posse next year. The barriers between those cliques are tough to break down and bridges burned are almost impossible to rebuild when you’re two and three years old.

The bond between Nate’s squad, on the other hand, is thick. Like blood brothers. In fact, according to Nate, his three guys actually make up a family. Blanket and Big Monkey are married and apparently, they’ve spawned an offspring, Little Monkey.

I guess those primate genes are pretty strong.

Anyway, according to Nate, May 30th is Little Monkey’s birthday. So we celebrated. Ok, we tried to celebrate. I had some leftover birthday cake in the freezer, that I had coincidentally taken out to thaw that morning. I was sick of it taking up space in the freezer, hogging valuable real estate that could be reserved for Sam’s Eggo waffles. So, it sat in an aluminum tin inside a Ziploc bag on the counter all afternoon.

When Nate told me—proudly—that it was Little Monkey’s birthday, I said, “Great, we’ll have cake!”

And Nate said, “What present did you buy for him?”

“Listen,” I said, “He’s a stuffed animal. He’s lucky to get a cake.”

Nate was content with this, and he spent the rest of the day talking with Sam about cake and caressing Little Monkey, telling him how proud he is of him and that he can’t believe he’s two years old already.

Here’s an important plot point that I’ve skipped: the cake didn’t have icing on it. I considered making homemade icing for a quick minute, even Googling a simple recipe, but then thought better of it. “They consume plenty of sugar as it is,” I thought to myself.

After dinner, Nate and Sam practically fell over each other racing back into the kitchen to get some cake.

“What’s this?” Nate said, curling up his top lip with skepticism. “Is this the cake? Where’s the icing?”

“Oh, this kind of cake doesn’t have icing,” I explained.

“No icing!” Sam practically fainted in disbelief, like Lord Cornwallis realizing the rebels were about to win independence from the crown.

“But Little Monkey loves icing! This is the worse birthday he’s ever had!” Nate folded his arms, clasping each tricep, lowered his chin to his chest and pouted his bottom lip. His brown eyes pierced through to my soul from across the room.

I actually felt guilty for a moment. I ruined Little Monkey’s birthday! What kind of mother am I? He’ll be in therapy for years!

But that moment quickly passed when I remembered that he’s a stuffed animal. Not only that, but he’s barely the size of a tennis ball.

Regardless, I felt like I had knowingly misled Nate and Sam with promises of cake. They’re kids—their cake experiences all involve frosting and sprinkles and boxed cake mixes.

Anyway, I’ll fast forward through the rest of the guilt trip Nate laid on me. Even tucking him into bed later that night, he leaned over, gave Little Monkey a squeeze and said, “I love you so much, Little Monkey. I’m sorry my mom didn’t give you presents or a cake for your birthday.”

Obviously—partly because of guilt but also partly because I was curious to see what would happen—I made icing the following afternoon and Nate and Sam helped me frost the cake. At dinner, Nate plopped Little Monkey on an extra chair that he had dragged to the table and doted over him the entire meal, even engaging him in conversation. And yes, we had birthday candles, and sang Happy Birthday, and Little Monkey wore a button—bigger than his actual body—that said “Birthday boy.”

Tighe took videos on his phone and sent Snapchats to Little Monkey’s closest friends and family. It was the most pleasant meal we’ve ever had together and the closest we’ve ever felt as a family.

Then, shortly after dinner, Nate started to complain that his stomach hurt.

“Drink water!” I ordered, “Probably too much sugar…”

At bedtime, he repeated his complaint, and I asked him if he needed to poop.

“I do!” he declared.

Exhausted, I sat on the end of his bed, cradling a weary Sam in my lap, and listening to Nate orate as he sat on the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. He gets really chatty when he’s pooping. Also when he’s eating. And playing. And when he first wakes up. And when he’s about to fall asleep. And when he’s nervous. And pretty much always.

“…George. And Aiman. And if my wife has another one, Dave.” He was planning his future family. He’d clearly thought about this before.

“Aiman. That’s an interesting name. Where’d you hear that?”

“I read about it. Online.” He tilted his head to the side and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling, like he was sharing a little known piece of trivia. All this as explosive noises were echoing in the toilet

“Really? What exactly did you read?”

“That Aiman was a boy and now he’s a grown-up. And I said, ‘Lightbulb! I like that name!’” At the word ‘lightbulb,’ he flashed his hands wide open, like jazz hands, and hopped down from the toilet. “Mom? Wipe me, please?”

“Huh. You really read about it online?”

“Yep.” Cocking his head and shifting one eye up at me as he dried his hands, “That’s the truth!”

An hour and a half later, Tighe and I were safely on the couch finishing an episode of House of Cards. Some people hate spoilers, so I won’t tell you which episode, but we’re somewhere in Season 4. Anyway, just as my mind was creating a Venn diagram between House of Cards and HBO’s Veep, the credits flashed onto the screen.

And one of the first names that popped up: Aiman Humaideh. Assistant director.

Aiman? Yep, things are getting really weird around here.