Tonawanda News

October 8, 2012

Making lemonade out of lemons (well, mostly)

The Tonawanda News

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.”

You call it, “Where did he get a permanent marker with which to doodle all over the couch?” I call it, “The Rigger Man is the next Picasso. Don’t hate.”

You call it, “He pulled the dog’s tail, tried to jump rope with it then mounted her like a horse.” I call it, well, bad. Yeah, no excusing that one. Can’t hurt doggies.

You call it, “He ran out of the bathroom pantsless, told Penny he’d pee on her and then followed through.” I call it ... um ... I got nothin’.

You call it, “The plumber said he’s never pulled so many Little People out of piping.” I call it ... wait, HOW many did he flush? Really? And Penny’s hair ties, too. Ugh.

You call it, “When Rigby grinds his own poop into the carpet with his bare foot, that makes it really hard to get out.” I call it (sigh) a mess. I mean, c’mon, bud. What would make you take a dump on the floor?

OK. Some acts just can’t be spun into positives.

If these are going to be Rigby’s first memories, at least he’ll have some doozies to share with his future family. And I remember enough to know he’ll create a whole lot more whoppers (and by whoppers, I mean mass destruction) before sanity kicks in.

Until then, we’ll keep the plumber on speed dial. And stock up on air freshener.

Contact Paul Laneat