With the Peeper, sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.
Sometimes, it rains.
There are times I just stare at the little guy in wonder trying to figure out how the inside of his head works. For example: not so long ago Deb (my Domestic Six) and I decided that we a) wanted another child, a girl, and b) didnt want to take another pass at nature's crapshoot. We would adopt a little girl and I would contribute by getting my wedding tackle de-natured
That's getting a vasectomy, gang. What we used to call "Fitting the blank adapter on your love gun".
So to give you the Cliff's Notes version, there I was, supine on the couch watching Newcastle v. Pompey and holding a nice cold bag of frozen peas to my crotch. For several days.
At the time, I thought that little Peeper's only observation was that Daddy wasn't availabile to play with him. We (my wife and I) explained carefully that the doctor had fixed Daddy's "nards" and that Daddy had to rest. No playing. No jumping on Daddy. Absolutely no jumping on, near, or in the same zip code as Daddy's nards.
This is a Domestic Tragedy, by the way. And it sure didn't seem to slow him down, as I found out later that week. Safety Tip: do NOT chase a three-year-old across Fort Vancouver several days after having your tubes tied.
You will pay for it later.
So I was taken somewhat aback a couple of weeks ago when, while changing his diaper, I observed to him that his boy-bits seemed a little red, rough and sore.
"Do you want some Good Medicine for your woo-woo?" I asked him
His answer was immediate and definate:
"No, I want put frozen peas on my 'nards and lie on couch and watch television!"
Well, okay then.