No Longer Sick, Infant, Quiet

I’ve beeneth throughest so many incarnations in my kiddyescent development, but no matter what placid things thee thinkest I mayeth hath been, I’m here to walk up to you in finest health and scream as to what greater and better things I am now.
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I started out as a true pre-birth sort of journalist. Twas a long time ago and indeed so traumatic I’ve verily blocked it all out, but I overcame it and simultaneously suffered and endured it all to suffer throughest a natural, sticky, embarrassing and disgusting vaginal birth.

Then I was sickly, as you can (quite literally) bloody well imagine I would be. I was yellow, despite a bold lack of cowardice and patently unable to gain any reporter dismissed weight at all. Thanks to the unimaginable efforts of the staff at Children’s Hospital I rebounded in finest form.

Not a New-B (newborn) and not sick, I was long relegated to a confusing state of infantilism. Suckling, teething, trying to crawl and otherwise licking carpet,it was all a big embarrassment, but I personally choose to blame it on age.

“Infantile” is a condescending label and, since teetering to toddlesome steps, I’ve graduated to toddler status. All that’s left from this headline to explain is that what’s left to overcome is personal volume and, as a baby to bigger-folk, let me tell you baby, I’m more than ready to stand up and holler for my own (un)due attention.

So how do I make up for it? It’s easy, though priced to move, I earn my success in sheer volume, volume, volume! (And by this I really mean it, volume, ya get me?

You may be deaf but you’d have to be dumb to not see I’m earning my due place in the family in terms of sheer, ridiculous, overwhelming quantums, even if just as measured by the deciblometer. You can’t ignore me, I make ear screeching piercingly positive of that.

Pay no mind to the noises I make nor mutterences I utter, come heck and high-water pants or other forms of odd and metaphorically subjective word plays, my newfound screaming is all about what it’s all undeniably about…Shallest I shout it again?

 

What is The Patrix?

It’s a question I’ve asked, maybe we all have. Reality is a question. What’s real; what’s imagined? I think I’m real. I think Miss Mama is real, but beyond that the question begins… who or what is the Patrix?
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Matrix is Mama, I got that part. The brothers are Fratrix, their noise alone has made that clear. But the Patrix? Who can know; how can I be sure?

My red pill is my Matrix, my Mama. Comfy, cozy, and everything I know. Daddy-O is my Patrix, my blue pill, my unsure unknown. He doesn’t have food, he doesn’t have the same comfort, and he’s not something I know entirely.

His voice has been in my head since before I was born. It’s a voice that told me there’s a world and a reality I’d never known. How do I face this voice? How do I know whether my easy truth is right or if this more harsh world is something I should look at?

It’s shape is all wrong and unpleasing so I just can’t eat the blue pill just yet, but I will think about what’s out there. I’ll lick the sugar coating as it is but not eat it whole, forsaking the mama, I’ll do it.

Am I just naïve or lacking the jade of this world? I’m pretty happy with it all no matter whatever crying you might hear or read reports of herein. According to Brendan the Patrix is just Dad but I’m not sure I’m ready to buy that. I’m thinking on it, don’t worry. But until I decide I’m going to stay in the cozy confines of mama’s arms. From what I’ve seen of the real world, even if it may be real, I could take it or leave it.


At left you’ll see the Fratrixes, at far right the Matrix, the Metrix next to her, so front and center I guess is our man.

 

Bathroom Reeks of Fetid Swamp-nasties

There’s fully five culprits acting against the clean air of our communal household bathroom, but I don’t care who’s most or most likely to blame. The one thing I do know without a doubt is that our bathroom, nay our entire home, stanks to high heck of stagnant waste water, whether in solids or something more foul.

Now here`s a room that could use a freshening up.
Now here`s a room that could use a freshening up.

Both Daddy-O and Miss Mama Lady (photographers & administrators for Perplexing Times) swear they are potty trained and that their own yucky waste matter is promptly flushed to a better place… better for us at any rate. I can’t attest to that, but I can smell that our bathroom stenches out a testament of a contrary sort.

Junior Mr. Dominic Benjamin (or bb-DB as the parents often call him) is understandably a destructive force on the quality of our homestead’s air supply. He’d fall off or in the toilet on his best day. The kid writes some fine material but he’s much too wobbly to potty train. I don’t approve of it, but I can accept it.

Then there’s myself on the potty and my diaper independance is admittedly hit and miss. Whether in my pull-ups or on the john I’m hit and miss, as my personal control and aim are less than perfect. I’m working on it but I miss sometimes, let’s not get critical. Most importantly on this matter is that, as the author of this piece, I am clearly not to blame.

Lastly comes Sr. Patricko el frustrato. He’s my elder brother-man, but as a man of special needs he’s way behind many of the most important curves, including his ability to not soil himself. He’s almost six so the stench he’s capable of depositing in our living space is other-worldly. Consider my vitriole venemous, but not even fractionally as toxic as what he routinely forces us to endure.

Our domestic staff is diligent about cleaning, disinfecting and removing the impoverished wealth of stank wafting disgustitude, but obviously it ain’t enough. The bathroom fan runs 24/7 but the Diaper Genie works double times. I can’t say who’s to blame and, honestly, I can’t even think straight. The methane sulphur fumes have gone to my head and i just can’t pretend I can even function anymore about this or anything else.

Word to the wise but wondering: Potty train young, remove and dispose of diapers constantly, and make a break for the fresh-air exits as ever-perpetually needed.

ABOVE - "Excuse me, can somebody empty this thing?"
ABOVE – “Excuse me, can somebody empty this thing?”

 

Interview Finds Baby Muttering, Wiggling, Reclusive

Once again I’m a bit disappointed. We had this great feature penciled for today and before my eraser could make it’s way back across the page the deadline snuck up and forced the publication of an article that’s a bit more in pieces than wholly whole.

Oh come on, won`t you give us just a bitty morsel?
Oh come on, won`t you give us just a bitty morsel?

Let my chubby cheeks tell you the tale and sell you the skinny. Picture this; we get to a chance to interview the world’s youngest journalist, a new American citizen and the smallest dude I know. Recipe for a great feature, no? I figured it would be a classic article filled with new perspective, insightful tidbits and words of inspiration. Oh my, I wasn’t just wrong, I was way wrong.

Me and bro Patrick set up our karaoke-style tape recorder and the questions a’started a’flying. Patrick held the mic for him since he wasn’t too excited about it, but from there the downward spiral only steepened. Asked his name he just grunted, asked his views, he suspiciously squirmed, and when asked why he wouldn’t give us any straight answers he let loose a bellowy, belly cry. Is he hiding something from us?

When I took this guy on I wanted some rest for myself and now I see he’s more headache, work, and trouble than he’s been worth. His insights have been out-sightful to say the least. When I most need his work around here he’s invariably asleep. Now, to put the cherry on the sour sundae, he won’t even answer his darn interview questions. What’s the meaning of this?

This long-awaited interview has only revealed that this guy is a reclusive, wiggly, noisemaker. I’m not a bitter boy by a sight but I’ve got as big a chip on my bitty shoulder as I’m able to bear and this grudge I’ve got will outlive any other I’ve fostered. In other words, Dominic is inked on to my bad list until at least sometime tomorrow afternoon.

Now go read something out of the archives, will ya? I’m trying to salvage this day journalistically.


“Forget this, I give up. If anyone asks, I’m not the one who broke him… I gotta go.”

 

Baby Me Still Growing in Height, Personality

I know I’m still the baby around here, and barring the Miss Mama baby factory re-opening for business I’ll ALWAYS be the youngest child around here, but I’m no infant anymore, I’m a toddler here and I’ve got my own right here, personality included.

I`m not just looking at you, I`m checking you out and pondering too.
I`m not just looking at you, I`m checking you out and pondering too.

I’m tallish, I can free-stand, I even take the odd pre-tumble step from here to there, yet I still am stuck as a victim to the baby profile. Here’s some reasons why I’m still considered the newborn:

  • No kids younger.
  • Older brothers are super-duper bossy.
  • Still haven’t needed a haircut.
  • I’m baby soft, baby cute.
  • The man is holding me down.

Now, by “the man” I mean my senior editor brother Brendan. he’s much, much older than me, like fully 15-months. So, with all his seniority and authority he’s clearly the man, and just as clearly, he holds me down.

Brendan hoards toys like you can’t even imagine. If I show interest in it, he’s just GOT to grab it up for his own, even when his arms are already overloaded with toys he’s already taken from me. Worse is if he sees me with yet another toy he takes that one too. Even then, in my most humble acceptance, I take up yet a different toy, but even that one he’ll likewise demand. I feel bad aout it, since he then drops all of them for me to take up renewed play and that makes him redoably sad.

Even with all that I still manage to find a new toy or spatula among the tens of thousands to entertain myself and yet still invariably he wants that as well. Whatever you guys say, I’m taking a stand for my size and independance nonethe-equitably more or less.

Calln’t me nary a baby nor infant, though with merely a medicum of height, I’ve gots me mad sorts of personality (and jowels) on tap and I’m here to sit, stand, and stand up for my rights as an individual in my own ways, means, and independant ability to scream out my demands.

ABOVE - There's a real science of exploration to examining ones own shadow, and it's a science I'm working on with vigor, as you can see.
ABOVE – There’s a real science of exploration to examining ones own shadow, and it’s a science I’m working on with vigor, as you can see.

Little Red Schoolhouse Lacks Little Red School Bus

According to a series of so-called “doctors” with their so-called “doctorates,” I’ve fallen somewhat significantly behind in terms of my so-called “communication skills,” and I’m less worried that I’m abusive to my staff than that my school bus isn’t representative.

This is me on the van slash bus... little, not red.
This is me on the van slash bus… little, not red.

Okay, maybe I lack communication skills. I haven’t read How to Win Friends and Influence People nor have I been even remotely fair to my administrative staff, verbally nor otherwise, but I can’t agree that I need this Little Red Schoolhouse, which isn’t little, nor red, nor an actual house, despite all it’s schooling.

Still, shouldn’t they at least have a Little Red School Bus? They don’t, and there was likewise a lack of Little Red Sympathy from the parents. They just wished me well, zipped me up and shipped me off.

When I arrived at the school I did get a bit of a surprise, Miss Mama-Lady and Mr. Daddy-O were there waiting to escort me into my new school… Wierd, huh? It’s like they’ve got consequential concern for my ability to adjust to this transition.

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Goldfish Plentiful, Dime a Dozen

The only “pet” we keep is baby brother Dominic. Cats and dogs are outside our allergenic sphere of comfort and fish or reptiles are generally too passive. Dominic isn’t house trained so we’re pretty content thus far. Also, he mostly walks on all fours, silly baby.
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We hit Petco to do our window shopping, even though their windows don’t face the sidewalk. Instead they’re something better, they’re inside and divide the critters from the kids and I was giddy to bits about that… well, once I was inside of course.

Many pet stores are bogged down with a cacauphous trifecta of yelpy-screaming dogs, mortally squalking feather folk and a veritable bagpipe quartet of frenzied kitty cats. Petco’s got no such madness.

Dogs are fun, cute, and fluffy and loyal but for every ounce or each or all of those (even in sum) they’re equally and undeniably yelpy, even (if not especially) in large caged groups. I love those yippy, screaming face-lickers but appreciate their absence. Maybe Petco sells dogs in other places, but in our superstore there was peace.

Cats are adorably hissing bags of clawsome anger, and admittedly no business I’d intentionally enter myself. I can’t speak for Petco’s motivation, but rather than sell these headstrong junior tigers (thusly potentially supporting filthy feline farms) they instead host a cat (without hat) adoption center. Maybe it’s kind, caring or even beneviolent, but come horsey hay or high water on the knee, it’s a fantastic idea for society at large. I mean, they can’t possibly pull a profit from it, so I can only imagine it’s for the best for the cats and human masses alike.

Birds and reptiles are modestly interesting, but be careful not to accidentally combine the two. The result, I’m told, would be chubby and lethargic lizards and a cage full of feathers, some of which passed through cold-blooded lizard diapers. They each cost less than our crew would have thought, but we didn’t splurge on such a purchase as molting (whether reptilian or feathered) somehow disagrees with my constitution.

So then we came to those frisky golden fish, which both me and the price tag insist are a dime a dozen. I’ve dug those fin-swishy aquata-critters since I first discovered them half a lifetime ago at the Shanghai Zoo. Even having visited the ladder at those dam locks I’d never seen so many swimming in such harmony (except for those silver fish in Finding Nemo). Though barely ten bucks in total, these tasty (non cracker) goldfish are of an entertainment hardly rivaled, not even by television.

Come as you are and come as you may, but if you come to Petco you’ll need to observe two things. First is that prices are internet low, second is that the goldfish are terrified when you bang your fist on their clearest shopping-style window and even more so when you try to dip that same fist (however small it is, like mine) into their otherwise fistfree habitat.

So, remaining true to our Perplexing philosophy of advocacy, let me wholeheartedly recommend Petco to you as a consumer. We’ve still never yet taken a single dime* to recommend any business, product or service. We don’t even have pets, so there isn’t anything they even could have given us.

So, seriously, Petco, people, they’re ten kinds of cool, ten kinds of cheap, and maybe even 11 kinds of “got it all.”

If you’ve got a pet but don’t “get it all,” you now know where to go.

*Dimes are good, but I call everything of coinage “money,” even Chuck E. Cheese tokens, which are obviously more valuable (although not available at Petco).

 

Brother Suffers Macular Generation

Maybe you know macular degeneration better known as loss of eyesight. It’s troubling among geriatric people starting at the wise old age of ten and up. But have you ever watched someone you love, someone in your own family even struggle with the opposite?

Be careful, he can almost see you, he almost knows what`s going on.
Be careful, he can almost see you, he almost knows what`s going on.

The less publicized bizarro ailment of macular generation is the equal bummer of macular degeneration. Brother Dominic could see a good foot, foot and-a-half when he was born, and he was cool with that. As he matures into his own he’s faced with a new problem: There’s a harsh reality out here in the real world (as I’m all too familiar) and only now as his vision improves can he actually see the ugly reality of Hey Mama, brother Patrick, and most hideous of all me, his demanding boss. I won’t kid you, I’m not very cute when I’m angry.

Currently there’s no products on the market to retard the development of your vision. I know because (out of love alone) I’ve checked. Don’t freak out thinking I’m trying to likewise stunt his growth or development. Believe me, nobody wants this kid grown up more than me; I have to listen to his semi-hourly crying.

Day by day his vision improves. He can see light from dark, he’s starting to make out shapes, and his field of vision is getting more distant too. his sadness intensifies as he can see us better. I dont blame him, there’s plenty to be sad about, toy sharing, room sharing, even publicity sharing. In his shoes i can’t imagine what I’d do (in part because they’re so small).

If you’re suffering from macular generation I can only suggest blinders, darkness and overprotective shades. If ignorance is bliss, blindness is surely a studio flat on the outskirts of nirvana.

Kiddo Shipped Off to Obedience School

“What’s the meaning of this?”quoteth I. I know I’ve always coveted Patrick’s school bus ridery, but sending me off to obedience school isn’t just insulting, it’s bizarre, unimaginable and outright cruel to my animal. I may just call PETA.

Here I`ve got my backpack, my smile and even my apprehension.
Here I`ve got my backpack, my smile and even my apprehension.

Mister Sr. Brother Patrick-man has never failed to gloat his glee in riding that gloriously big (albeit short) yellow bus and, likewise, I’ve never failed to reciprocate with my own duly diligent jealousy.

It’s clear I want what he seems to have, but it’s no matter, I know I’ve been shipped off to the most inhumane of obedience schools, and I ain’t impressed.

There’s five areas my state assessed me on, and in four of them I came out right at my age, but in terms of communication I allegedly tested 25% low (or more), despite the fact that I’m a world-reputed journalist. All the sudden I’m qualified for schooling, short bus and all… and all of it feels like obedience.

ABOVE - My last moment at the door before going in and forever becoming a pickle... hey wait a second, where's dad's reflection... that's a little unsettling now that I notice he doesn't have one. Wierd!
ABOVE – My last moment at the door before going in and forever becoming a pickle… hey wait a second, where’s dad’s reflection… that’s a little unsettling now that I notice he doesn’t have one. Wierd!

 

Yosemite Sam Got Candy On, In the Brain

If you’ve ever tasted the sweet, distant cousin of amphetamines better known as sugar, you know how easy it is to have candy on the brain. What you may not know is that some characters out there also have candy in the brain.

Oh Sam, how DO you DO it?
Oh Sam, how DO you DO it?

As far as toys go it’s pretty unique that my Pez-style companion is not only made of bright plastic but also that it contains a cartridge of nummies. It’s got a semi-automatic dispensing clip that just itches to pop out chunks of happiness one after the next. Properly operated (which is a craft I’ve not yet mastered) the user can rapid-fire nuggets of colorful stimulants at a dangerous pace.

As a person I can only half understand Mr. Sam’s obsession. Candy on the brain is right up my alley and indeed down my gullet. More mystifying than his willingness to share his trove of magical good and giddiness is that it makes up his very innards. After hanging out with him my insides are also full of candy and with too much of it I’m warned it would also powerfully eject from my throat, but I have other stuff in there too. Lungs, kidneys, soy milk, spirit and burpies just to name a few. Yosi’s just got candy and springs and plastic for dispensing the candy. That doesn’t add up.

yosemite-sam-2In case you’re worried about my nutrition I should mention that I don’t get unsupervised visitation with my Pezzy friend, thus I’ve just heard about sugar-sickness and never personally experienced it. Moreover you should note that this candy isn’t just sugar. It’s fortified with other essentials like FD&C Yellow #5 as well as FD&C Red #3. I’m no dietitian but that’s gotta be good for bones or something.

While scientists may never fully unravel the mysteries locked up tight by Yosemite Sam and his flip-top head I’m content to just love him for who he is. It’s not about his money or political contacts, I love him for what’s inside.