Tonight will be a welcoming back to this blog after almost a week sabbatical and the stylish ruminations of my sarcastic wit or some semblance thereof. I don’t expect you all to stay awake through the bulk of it, but try to humor me for awhile. Pull up your blanket and laptop and settle back for a mind tickling; I would promise not to get violent, but no guarantees. I will, however, assure you that I will swear at least once and talk about boobs. That ought to keep your curiosity piqued for a bit.

Now, on with our random stream…

In local climes today the weather has turned downwards in popularity and the tits of witches everywhere are protesting in jealousy at the ability of a good old fashioned Iowa winter’s ability to render even the toughest of us a shivering wreak in a few short heartbeats. What during the months of July and August is typically the crucible for God’s own Mongolian barbeque has now crisped up into arctic walk-in and local residents have taken to hanging sides of beef in their front yards and collecting the chunks of air as they fall from the sky. Remember, nothing makes a beautiful cup of iced tea quite like a cube of solidified oxygen.

Upon shouting in to ask Punxsutawney Phil if he’d care to make a few comments about the cold snap, an echoing yet forceful, “Fuck you!”, was forthcoming and the news media gathered around had to return home empty-handed and admonished.

However, I feel we disparage the mammaries of the female wizards of the world. After all, who was it that decided that all witch’s tits are cold? We know from the sagas of Hogwarts that there are clearly some very comely women that just happen to be spellcasters, Emma Watson being one of those. She can wave her wand at me any….what? She’s not 18 yet? Dammit. There I go, looking like a perv and it’s not even midnight. Sigh.

There is magic in the air, however, my studious and attentive reader, for my son at least. He has long had a wide vocabulary of grunts, squeals, yips, squeaks, and clicks, but within the past two days whenever he starts clicking his tongue in his mouth — you know, like you do when you’re “clucking” at someone, snapping your tongue down from the roof of your mouth to the bottom so it clicks? — I do it back to him. He’d click, I’d click back. I figure this is one of those sounds that all babies can make but if you don’t use it in your natural language production they lose as the brain rewires to your native language. The click would have been vastly useful had he been born somewhere in backwoods Africa, but instead he got honky-ass Iowa. Lucky him.

At any rate, my entire weekend — no, scratch that, week — was made tonight. Normally he would start clicking his tongue randomly and then I would click back to him while he was already doing it. We were sitting upstairs talking on webcam to Grandma Sharon and I was trying to get him to smile and carry on for her a bit, when I got an idea and started clicking at him. He wasn’t doing it at the time, and he first gave me an odd look, but then you could see him start to concentrate. After about a dozen clicks, one tiny, soft sound emerged from his cherubic mouth — click! You could have lit a city block just by slapping some jumper cables onto my ears.

Having them smile and recognize you is awesome. Having them remember something you did together and figure out how to do it again on cue — priceless. Now if only I can get my cat to respond in a similar manner; alas, when it came to felines, Pavlov knew he was bested and simply did the only sane thing — gave up before he even tried.

So, it’ll be a weekend of staying within these hallowed walls and nursing our domestic dustbunny collection as our son clicks, burps, and farts his way further into our hearts, minds, and stories. We dare not take him outside in this weather despite the various covers, blankets, warmers, snugglies, padding, and other insulating devices we have just on the random chance that Daddy would ditch it and we’d have to cross the Back Forty to get help, but that’s ok. We have plenty to do here and sticking around to watch our money burn in the furnace is kind of sadomasochistic in a way.

You folks keep your titties, spellbound or Muggle alike, warm during this snap and I’ll be off in a corner, teaching my son to doubleclick and, if he’s exceptionally lucky, right-click. He’s my cute, cuddly, and exceptionally gassy geek and I think he’s off to a great start already.