“I don’t know what your music is. You like all types of music, but you also hate all types of music.”Weston, talking about my taste in music.
Nonessential surgeries have been backed up due to COVID-19, so Claire was waiting for over two months. Maybe an hour after I brought her home from the hospital, Weston was complaining that his side hurt. His doctor uncle came by to see Claire and to drop off all of his non-vegan food. He looked at Weston and said that we should probably take him to the ER. When the ER doctor poked Weston’s right side, Weston screamed and folded in half. The doctor looked at me with a mischievous smile and kept poking Weston’s appendix. Weston’s reaction tapered off, and, eventually the doctor got bored and said, “Yeah, now you know it’s coming.” They took him in for an ultrasound, and asked if I wanted to go with them. I said that I wanted to see if it was a boy or a girl.
Luckily, the surgery went well. His surgeon was great. One of the more entertaining parts was hearing him describe when Weston can play basketball again. He said, after a week, he could bounce the ball a little and do some spinny things.
After a week (and five months of COVID shutdown) he insists he’s ready to go back to school.
The boys wanted to earn some extra cash to support their basketball habit. (We still don’t know if it should be one word or two.)
When Weston was young, his room had glass doors. He was so young that we didn’t think he would mind the lack of privacy. As he got older, he started to mind a little more. We later updated his room and got some new furniture. The only problem was that now his dresser was right by the window. We also never got around to getting new blinds for his window. So, he had glass doors, and the easiest place to change was right next to a window with no blinds. (I realize how bad this all looks now.)
Around this same time, Weston would often dream about being in the NBA. We were talking about how much fun it would be. I told him that Damian Lillard’s mom lived with him not too far from where we lived. I told him that his getting into the NBA was my retirement plan, and that Claire and I would come live with him when we were old. Weston got a mischievous grin on his face and described our room as having all glass walls and NO BLINDS. I told him that was fine. At that age, I think he’ll care more than I will.
We were on a family vacation in Moab, Utah. We went to Pasta Jay’s for dinner. I noticed one of the entrees was called “Roman Orgy.” Sure enough, Weston ordered the Roman Orgy but pronounced it “orgee” rather than “orjee.” The server smiled. Claire and I smiled. After the meal, Weston asked what the name meant. We had to tell him. Thanks a lot, Pasta Jay’s.
We were playing a game of “Would You Rather,” and Weston came up with a real dilemma:
Would you rather be able to understand every language and not be able to speak them—or the opposite?
I think I would rather speak other languages and not know what I’m saying, but that’s me.
Weston: “What can I get you for your birthday?”
Claire: “Win the first game of the tournament, and that will be my present.”
Weston: “OK, and I’ll lose the second so you don’t have to stay for another game.”
(They won all three anyway.)
Weston wears shorts all year, and has never experienced weather cold enough to merit pants in his mind. This was painful to watch on our recent trip to London. Some days were much too cold for shorts — at least for any of the other 8.5 million people in London — but Weston didn’t care.
We walked by a stand that sold FC Barcelona hats. I told Weston I would buy him a hat if he agreed to wear pants the next day. We then went into our regular back-and-forth about why, at times, he should wear pants. The man selling us the hat had a bemused look on his face, and I realized that “pants” in England means “underwear.” I was trying to bribe my son to wear underwear, which is only slightly less bizarre than trying to bribe him to wear “trousers.”
We were talking about our plans for the day. Harper said she was excited for one particular activity, which was not yet a fixed part of the plan. Harper often does this as a way to ensure that decisions are made in her favor. Weston attempted to manage her expectations and said that the activity — I don’t remember what it was, or I would be able to use fewer pronouns to talk about it — was “wavey-wavey”. I asked Weston what he meant, and he said, “You know, wavey wavey,” rocking (or waving) his hand back and forth, the common gesture to imply uncertainty. Just in case it turns into a common phrase, I want to be sure Weston gets credit.
It was 7pm (2-3 hours to my bedtime), and the cars needed to be completed and weighed the next day. I was going to be busy at work the day of the deadline, so there was no way to further procrastinate. I had three hours.
A few weeks earlier, Weston and I had watched Rocky IV in a hotel during a mini family vacation. Weston’s description of what he wanted was basically a supine Rocky figurine with wheels. I decided that etching Weston’s photo, posing as his favorite pugilist, would be a quick and easy solution. Although he was constantly bouncing around the house as though he was in a championship fight for the title, I don’t think he practiced any of his faces in front of a mirror. He either looked too happy, too sad (like he was losing and wanted to cry), or just completely deranged. We took about 30 photos before getting one I thought would work…then decided to use a deranged photo instead — just because it was funnier.
After etching his photo onto the car, I realized the deranged photo didn’t show his arms. Thinking Weston would be disappointed with a boxing car that doesn’t have arms with which to box, we looked through all of the toys to find some arms that might work. We nailed some arms to the block, so we could still rotate them as though Weston was swinging. In a very strange way, the arms matched Weston’s expression and his face didn’t seem any more deranged than the expressions Rocky makes during the big fights.