Whiskey and Bubble Paper

Not that she needs to be, but the missus is a bit of a buy-your-child’s-affection kind of gal. I’m not exactly Mister Deprivation or anything (full disclosure: I bought her a toy, a puzzle and a book yesterday), but Wifey showers Weevy with gifts left, right and center, not to mention up, down and sideways. So it’s no surprise that when packages arrive in the mail, Weevy expects them to be for her.

Only thing is, Daddy gets a lot of “presents” too — by which I mean bottles of booze from various PR firms for my review and general enjoyment. Most days, when we get the mail together, the conversation goes like this:

“Ooh, Daddy, is it a present?”

“I think it is.”

“A present for me?”

“No, sorry sweetie, it’s a present for me.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like a bottle of whiskey.” (“Whiskey” means basically any kind of booze. I will start distinguishing the specific types of spirits with the young’un soon, but not yet.)

We get upstairs, open up the haul:

“Is there anything in there for me?”

Usually, I say “No, just a bottle of whiskey, sorry.” But she always looks so crestfallen when I tell her that. I WANTED her to share in the bounty. And the other day, I figured out how. It came to me in a moment of blind inspiration, as so many of the best ideas do. I was pulling out a bottle of Booker’s Bourbon (thank you, everyone at Jim Beam) from the box which had been liberally wrapped in a large amount of bubble paper — the kind that you can pop with your fingers. The kind of thing kids love. The kind of thing my kid in particular loves.

“Well look at this, Weevy! There’s a bottle of whiskey for me and a whole bunch of bubble paper for you!” And I handed her a sheet. Her face lit up like it was Christmas morning. “OH WOW! Bubble paper!” And she let out a shriek of sheer glee like it was the greatest gift she’d ever gotten.

But I didn’t stop there, oh no. Inside was a note from the publicist who’d sent me the bottle, telling me to enjoy it, etc. I said, “Look, Weevy, there’s a note in the package too!” It says, ‘Dear Tony, I hope you enjoy the whiskey… and tell Weevy to enjoy the bubble paper.'” Hey, I figure I can only do this until she starts reading, which won’t be too long.

Well, now she was REALLY impressed. “They said for Weevy to enjoy the bubble paper! YAY! Bubble paper!”

Now I try to find a “present” for her in every boozy package I get. Wild Turkey Spiced Bourbon included a faux “treasure map which says “No Pirates Allowed.” She looks at it incessantly, and it cracks me up when she says, “It says ‘No Pirates Allowed, Wild Turkey Spice.’ Why are there no pirates allowed?” She has literally said this to me 20 times in a row.

And yesterday, we got a big box of Scotch in a Halloween-themed wooden box decorated with skeletons, witches, monsters, etc, complete with a card (which I told her was for her), featuring a poem all about the whisky. For reasons I can’t quite explain, she loved it and made me read it to her for about a half hour straight.

Hey, whatever makes the girl happy.

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Welcome to the Rest of Your Life

It’s been a while since I posted anything here — just about four months, to be precise, which is about 10% of Weevy’s life. Not good. So without further ado….

Weevy is now an adorable, talkative, relentlessly imaginative three-year-old, in nursery school five days a week, three hours a day, with friends I don’t know and knowledge of things her mom and I didn’t teach her (she told the missus the other day that baby bats were called pups — neither of us knew that).

So at Weevy’s school, they give each kid in the class a different job every week, complete with a little “My Job Is…” sign that they wear around their necks on Mondays, I guess so the parents can figure out what their kids are doing. God knows that whenever I ask Weevy how school was, it goes something like this:

“How was school today?”

“Good.”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, did you read any books?”

“Yes.”

“Which ones?”

“I don’t know.”

And so on.

Last week, Weevy’s job was “Line Leader.” Quite an impressive title, until you realize that it basically means she stands in front of the line when they have to go to the gym or down the stairs or whatever. Not the most demanding of jobs, but hey, it includes the word “leader,” so I’m impressed.

Last Wednesday, she came out (our reunions are always joyous — she’s still too young to be sullen, thank goodness) and I asked the usual question: “How was school today?” Instead of the usual response, I got this:

“Um, good. They took my job away.”

What the fuck?! I tried to remain calm.

“You lost your job? What happened?”

“I don’t know.” (Pause) “I was crying.”

I never quite got the full, unadulterated story, but it seems she was crying either because she didn’t want to go to the potty or she DID want to go to the potty when she was supposed to be leading the line. I couldn’t figure it out, and I suppose the gory details will be lost in the mists of time.

“Well, did they give you another job?”

“No.” Her voice brightened. “But I’ll get my job back soon.”

Bless your innocent three-year-old heart. And welcome to the next, oh, 70 years of your life. Getting shit-canned at age three is a harsh entree to the realities of modern existence — an existence I’ve worked hard all my life, with my unorthodox series of jobs, to avoid. And now Weevy had been blindsided by the whole mishegoss. My heart bled for her, it really did, even if she didn’t seem to give much of a crap about it. Good for her, I say.

I’m happy to report that she did get her job back the next day. And she’s not even going to sue her teacher for furloughing her.