juice-box

Home-centric weekend. The nine day road trip had left a lot of things neglected.

Tackled the compact-car size pile of limbs we cut out of bushes and trees in September and pulled out fireplace suitable fuel and burned the rest off in the outdoor pit. Flannel drag, work boots, saw in hand… My lumberjack facade was nearly perfect except for the NPR blaring on the portable kinda blew it… *You just can’t appear hyper-masculine with The Prairie Home Companion cranking in the background.

Babybear’s been down with a head cold since Friday night. I hate it when he gets sick. While I may have the “provider bear” role down pat, I suck at “care giver” role. Kevin on the other hand must have teen a triage nurse in another life.

Kevin and I ran to pick up some soup and juice after returning movies to Hollywood and I spied these tiny-scaled Elmoâ„¢ juice boxes at the dollar store. Knowing full well that Chad LOVES Elmo, I picked up a pack of them.

Now what’s more ridiculous? A 30 year old man being fascinated by a little red furred, bug-eyed muppet or a 32 year old who enables this fascination when given the opportunity.

It’s interesting to note that us Xers are the first generation to reach full-adulthood who have been raised on Sesame Street. (For the early 1970’s, the idea of educational children’s programing was still progressive and there were only a handful of pioneers). Like anyone in our age bracket, I can do a pretty good impersonation of Kermit The Frog and I know what a Snuffleopagus is. I’m sure that says something on a socio-cultural-anthropological level – but I lack the higher ed to explore this concept.

Muppet-theory aside… Chad let out a little NyQuil slurred giggle when I placed the fruit-juice packs in front of him.

I smiled.

I giggled too.

I didn’t blog about this.