Never Too Early to Start Shopping

Walt spotted this toy catalog in the mail the other day and it stirred up in him the genetic tendency to get out a pen and mark the things he will not be able to live without come Christmas.  Okay, so maybe I taught him that trick, but DeeDaddy will be proud nonetheless.  For those of you who have the little shopper on your list, his desired items include a tabletop billiards game, some sort of spring-loaded robot boxing ring, and a balance beam.  (Come to think of it, the balance beam might not be a bad idea.)

Pele Had a First Pair of Cleats or How Not to Cry In a Payless Shoe Store

I'm somewhat reluctant to admit this (No.  Not that I almost cried in an open-to-the-public, discount shoe retailer.  I'm fine with that.), but Ginger and I have decided to let Walt play in one of those one-month long, we-don't-keep-score-because-we're-all-winners-here, co-ed youth soccer leagues next month.  My initial reservations were, well, myriad.  I grew up somewhat of a sports purist and remain largely unchanged.  Girls play against girls, and you play to win.  And that typically means you have to keep score.  Call me old-fashioned. 

But.  Chalk it up to maturity (or fear), because when Ginger pitched the idea, I didn't say any of that.  I think I said, "Does this mean we get to buy him some soccer cleats?"  That was quickly followed up with a threat to show me the family budget, which I have avoided viewing for over ten years now, and an assurance that were I to look at it, it would resemble that of most of the investment banks in the country. 

What good are sports, especially ones that Spicklers can't dominate, i.e. all of them, if you can't go out and buy the best gear?  So, after some intense negotiations worthy of ol' Hank Paulson himself, I garnered authority to "not spend a lot of money" on some shoes for my son's first foray into organized, albeit not competitive, sports. 

After checking the Internet, including eBay, and finding out that, yes, you really can spend $85 on single-purpose footwear for a pre-schooler, I decided that we needed a new plan.  Lo and behold, I found myself with an opening Monday afternoon as I picked up Walt from school while Ginger helped run her employer's annual golf tournament.  We quickly dispatched with the trip to the Children's Museum and got on to the business at hand.  I'd identified Rack Room as my best bet for a brick-and-mortar footwear bargain as I've had much success there myself over the years.  However, I was foiled by what were, I'm certain, a cadre of similarly situated and budgetarily constrained fathers in the greater East Memphis area.  They had one final pair of sweet Nikes.  15 bucks.  Size 13.  Try again.

Plan B: Payless.  Walt is not too good for off-brand kicks, at least until he proves himself.   And, hey, I remember my first pair of athletic cleats.  Cuga, a brand name that doesn't even yield a decent Google result in a World Wide Web dominated by my generation.  Embarrassment or brand collapse?  Probably both.   Fine footwear they were not.

Regardless, Payless delivered.  One style.  Made in China.  Just like the Nikes at Rack Room, mind you.  And multiple sizes.  After almost having to sedate Walt three separate times for the three different sizes we tried, we found the ones.  Size 9.  At the end of the aisle.  "Run down to the other end and see how they feel,"  I instructed, as if he knew what a pair of soccer shoes were supposed to feel like.  Of course, he ran.  This is why I had barely been able to keep him in one place long enough to tie each of them: once he found out that he got to run each time we tried on a new pair, he was hopeless. 

"Can I run to the orange thing, Daddy?  Can I?" 
"Not yet.  Let me get the paper out first, Walt."

Finally, with the impossibly small black and silver spikes strapped to his tiny little feet, he took off with that all too familiar stride and enough energy to play 90 minutes right then and there.  I don't know what it was.  My own memories of new cleats or pads or helmets or gloves.  How big those stupid shoes made him look.  Or the foreknowledge that I would be the one taking him to his first practice today and watching him run around in dizzying circles with his buddies in those same shoes not caring where the ball is.  Whatever.  I had to check over my shoulder to make sure the clerk hadn't come out of the stock room.  I teared up real good.   Like a big, goofy crybaby.

So much for teaching him to be tough, huh?  At least they're not keeping score . . .

Keeping Promises

In this season of broken promises, we make it a point to keep ours.  A few weeks ago, I promised additional photos from Walt's and my trip to Mammoth Cave with Putty.  And as a candidate for "Best Blogger On A Blog About Walt," I intend to keep my promise.

Here are your intrepid explorers preparing for their journey.  (Putty's new Garmin GPS device not pictured.)

This next series I have to include even though the photos alone aren't really that great.  But taken as a set and considering that Walt basically told me that he didn't want to pose for the photo, they are hysterical.  As you can see, the last one isn't a photo of him walking away.  He basically turned away from me and Putty and just stood against that fence rail, staring into the parking lot.

During the drive out of the park, we spotted some wildlife.

Putty and Walt promptly exited the car . . .

and herded Bambi into this, the most perfectly framed nature photo I've
ever taken.  I call it "Deer With Forest Fire Issues."

We then stopped at the Green River, which has its origins far below the Kentucky limestone that makes up the strata of Mammoth Cave National Park's 52,000+ acres . . .

. . . to throw some rocks into it. 

And finally, what's a boys' trip without a little abject lawlessness?  (Putty claims he didn't know the meaning of the yellow "retnE toN oD" tape draped across this out-of-commission ferry.)  FYI: they were catching leaves as they floated down the river and certainly violating some sort of Federal statute.

We got out of there before the Park Rangers made the scene and departed to an undisclosed location south of the border.

No Fences Were Harmed in the Making of This Post

All apologies for the infrequent posts of late.  No good excuses.  Sadly, it has taken a trip to the emergency room to get us back to the keyboard.  Many of our faithful readers (and the Facebook crowd) are already aware that Walt decided to take a dive into the iron fence surrounding the playground at school on Friday, thereby earning himself a trip to Methodist Le Bonheur Children's Hospital.  Much like the day Evie decided to play chicken with a truck, I forgot my phone and learned this bit of news through the firm's switchboard.  (It has been declared that in the future I am to retrieve my phone the instant I realize I've forgotten it.)

Anyway, we haven't seen the fence, yet, but Walt has four brand new shiny stitches and a little lump on his head.  This is what he looked like prior to getting the stitches.

As you can see, he was not really concerned.  He maintained this demeanor throughout the procedure including when the "stitch guy" was repeatedly sewing closed the hole in his head immediately above his right eye and the suture was dragging across his nose.  He especially liked the forced irrigation of the gaping wound prior to the sewing.  He said it tickled.  His mommy was anything but.

As a brief aside, we inquired whether we should employ a plastic surgeon for the repair of our only child's previously perfect cranium.  "No," we were told.  The "stitch guys" around here are better than the doctors."  Stitch guys???  What is this boxing?  Do you have a "cut guy", too?  Are they going to squeeze a sponge on the back of his neck?  Sure enough.  The "stitch guy," whose name we didn't get, came in in his Mickey Mouse t-shirt, surveyed the situation, numbed Walty's noggin and proceded to close up the gash in Walty's head with all of the composure of a high stakes poker player.  Imagine repeatedly sticking a needle and thread into and through someone else's three-year old while both parents stand over your shoulder.  Yeah.  He didn't seemed phased.  Even when I blew in his ear.

It should be noted, and Putty takes full credit for this for some reason, that Walt never shed a tear during the entire ordeal.  From what I've heard and seen, it sounds as if the teachers and Mommy were closer to tears than Baby Frankenstein was.

So, of course, Walt got to choose the dinner restaurant and after a tasty grilled cheese at Huey's, a trip to the river to watch the sunset and throw some rocks, and a visit from roadside assistance (long story, long day), he retired for the day falling asleep before his banged up little head hit the pillow.

This morning he awoke early possibly because he anticipated continued sympathy and junk food.  He wasn't disappointed.  Muffins, toast, donuts, mac 'n' cheese, hot dog, etc, etc.  Hopefully, poor nutrition doesn't contribute to scarring. 

The social calendar didn't suffer from the injury.  The day began with a trip to the Farmer's Market, as usual, and then it was off to meet, oh, just about everyone we know at the Clanjamfry Scottish Festival.  It was just me and Walt, and I apparently left my good judgment in the car, because I didn't really put up a fight when Walt suggested that he be allowed to get in the inflatable, bouncy castle with ten other hard-headed children flinging themselves about with reckless abandon.  It crossed my mind that this might not be a good idea, but it was too late.  No harm, no foul, right?

Walt wore himself out.  He took a two-plus hour nap and then it was off to the new Levitt Shell for Grupo Fantasma, the rockinest Latin dance band you've ever heard of.

Here's some grainy, unsteady video of Walt proposing to Mer that they dance for me and my camera phone.

Whew.  I'm tired.  And I don't have a hole in my head.

Leftovers*

Walt had his first oyster while we were at the beach.  (Steamed, not raw, grandparents.)

*The title of this post refers to leftover pictures, not leftover oysters.  Because that would be gross.

Kickin' it Parental Style

Sorry for the lack of posts recently.  I actually did one about a week ago and was just finishing up when a technical error caused me to lose the whole thing.  I was too disheartened to start again.  And the past week has been BUSY, much like the rest of this month will be, so I wouldn't count on Walt's World for all your entertainment needs this month.  Anywho . . .

Part of what kept us busy this past week was getting ready for the Cooper Young Parent Network (CYPN) party at our house on Friday.  This weekend was the Cooper Young Festival, which always starts off with a 4-mile race that goes right past our house on Friday night.  So, after our good friend, Mandy, had the genius idea of starting the CYPN, we decided that the race was a perfect excuse for throwing a party to kick it off!  I was pretty busy with hostessing duties during the party, so I didn't get a lot of great pictures, but here are a few . . .

This is Vincent  -- he was super-cute.

The guy on the right is Joe, our across-the-street neighbor and good friend.  I have no idea who the rest of the people are, as was the case with probably thirty of the people at the party.  I kept rushing through the house to retrieve more hot dogs or trash bags, smiling at total strangers hanging out in my living room -- next time I hope to actually MEET some of the people in the network!

 

And here's the only picture I got of Walt the whole night -- he and Daddy were chatting up the friendly policeman who stopped by to say hi (not to bust up the crazy toddler party).

 

Most of the times I saw Walt (Kate was helpfully keeping an eye on him while Josh ran the race and I manned the grill), he was either elbow-deep in a bag of Tostitos, or had a brownie clutched in his hand.  One time Josh asked him (while he was holding a brownie, no less) how many he'd had.  "None," came the reply.  We estimate the true answer to that question at the end of the night was at least four.  Oh well.  I don't think that's an arrestable offense in most states.

Dodging Hermit Canes

You see a 'hermit cane' is the weather event otherwise known as a hurricane.  But in Walt's World, it's a 'hermit cane'.  This is just how it is.  And we've been dodging one particular hurricane this week: Gustav.  In a last minute flurry of Internet research and executive decision making, we took a hard left turn out of Memphis and went to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina instead of our previous destination of Seagrove Beach, Florida.  (You may remember Seagrove Beach from our vacation of two years ago.)  Not to be outdone, Tropical Storm Hanna seems to now be on a collision course with the Spicklers.

That would be Hilton Head right there in the bright red middle just above the 'Fri PM' line.  It's too early to tell, but we may be leaving here a little early.

No to be deterred, we, the Lareaus and the Mills are having a blast before the blast.  We've had sand, sun, seafood and gelato.  So far, no sunburns or shark bites.  Keep your fingers crossed and enjoy the photos.