Tonawanda News — My first memories — getting markers from my grandmother, a picture of John Kennedy that was in my room for some reason, falling down the stairs while going down them with my siblings — are from when I was about 3 1/2 years old.
That’s how old Rigby is now. So I can now say I literally remember what it was like being his age.
And at that age — well, I was kind of a pain in the butt.
I had way too much energy. I got into everything. I found too much humor in things that hurt others.
Basically, I was the sort of kid a parent would want to drop-kick through a window.
Most boys, are, though. There’s just something about the male species that makes us borderline unbearable for our younger years — and probably many of our older years, also.
Rigby’s starting to perform some of the same bizarre acts I did at that age. But rather than look at the negative, I’m opting to put a positive spin in his shenanigans, find some sort of order that is the chaos of a toddler boy.
You call it, “Rigby is such a filthy mess after playing outside.” I call it, “He’s expanding his mind by engineering ways to make dirty things dirtier.”
You call it, “Rigby keeps running around the house with his Buzz Lightyear wings on and smacking his sister in the face with them.” I call it, “He’s trying to fly. Let him shoot for the moon.”
You call it, “Why did Rigby wet wads of toilet paper in the sink and then chuck them on the mirror?” I call it, “He’s conducting science experiments on adhesiveness.”
You call it, “Paul, with that scratch on your face, what’d you do the other guy?” I call it, “Yep, my boy is just that strong that he ripped off three epidermal layers without even trying to.”