And His New Favorite Phrase is: That's Random

This week, a certain someone in the Farklepants house turned twelve. He blew out candles on a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake [delish, natch]. He opened his gift; one of only two items under one hundred dollars suggested on his birthday wish list [a list that should have bore the title: Dream On - Not a Song by Aerosmith]. He was told that if he wanted Rock Band or an iPhone he was going to have to save his own money and was once again reminded that his father is not made of it, even if his friends parents apparently are. And son, if you really would like to receive those frivolous and expensive items then Mommy will have to go back to work to support that; and do you really want that to happen? Do you want Mommy to leave? Happy birthday son, here's your gift of guilt. You're welcome. Plus his mom is secretly hoping that Rock Band never makes it into the house because she is sick to everlovingdeath of video game equipment taking over the family room and is running out of places to stash it. There are no longer hiding places for everything and everything in its hiding place [the Wii Fit balance board is already calling olly olly oxen free from under the coffee table, for reals]. What there is, is plenty of overflow. Because we haven't even begun to discuss wires. Dusty wires. And those with Y chromosomes lack the gene that perceives wires to be an irritating nuisance.

The rest of his gift is a day at Magic Mountain with his friends. Because the great thing about the gift of a trip is that you go to the amusement park; it does not come to your house. Where it would need to be found a shelf for keeping. And occasionally dusted.

Happy birthday, Boy-Child#1. You can stop aging now. Your continued growth makes it difficult for me to put you in my pocket and keep you safe forever. Thanks. Love, Mom.

*photo by Mr. Farklepants and his super bad-ass camera