Time for Change

It must be nice being two years old (aside from the crapping in one's pants, though we're working on that). On top of the fact that your Dad will do absolutely anything for you if you whine long enough, it takes very little to make your day.

As an adult, when was the last time you were excited about a letter? Finn gets pumped every time he sees the letter "F".

"F is for Finn!" he'll exclaim from his potty-throne. He will then go on to inform me that "W" is for Woody and "R" is for Dump Truck. I don't correct him. I'm pretty sure there's an "R" in there somewhere and he's so happy to have found it.

He will then command that I sing him the concrete mixer song for the eleventy-millionth time that afternoon and then clap and laugh when I get to the chorus like it's the first time in history anyone has ever thrown in a "bom bom bom" transition during the concrete mixer song.

Which is probably true, given that I made up the concrete mixer song, but still. I don't remember the last time I got excited about the letter "B" and/or a song involving concrete mixers, but I'm sure I'm just overly jaded. Growing up in the big city of Millbrook, NY will do that to you.

No, when I want excitement I need to do something EXTREME. Something nuts. Something dangerous. Something like SHAVING!

This was the first time I had shaved my beard in roughly 10 years - which only sounds long until you consider that it took me roughly 9 years to grow it. Given that Finn had obviously never seen me without a beard and knowing how excited he gets over the most mundane stuff, I was excited to show him. I shaved it off during his nap and went up to wake him up expecting him to totally freak out.

"Hi Daddy," was his only response.

Disappointed, I made him rub my face and repeatedly tried to get him to tell me what was different. He just looked at me like I was crazy until I finally asked him where my beard went.

"It's right here," he casually informed me. Then he reached down and grabbed a handful of my chest hair.

Apparently, my sparsely populated facial hair migrating down to my chicken chest - while still totally freaking me out every time I walk past a mirror - isn't as exciting as the letter "F" to the Ninja.

Next time I'll have to throw in a "bom bom bom" for good measure.