And Bingo’s the Name of the Game, O

Bingo is the slang term used in Scrabble when a player uses all seven tiles in one play. They are an essential part of achieving high scores; expert players frequently score three or more per game. I’m glad when I can put down two in a game, and I'm over the moon when my four-year-old spots one on her own.

Now granted, she did play a proper name – ROSARIO – but I let it go because I was already up 183 points. (Note to Brandon: I’d never be so gracious with you, even if I were up 1,830 points.)

I have to say: her bingo ranks right there with other Proud Dad Moments. In fact, it’s ahead of first steps and behind only first words.

Life's a Zoo

Q: What’s black and white, and pushing a red shopping cart all over?
A: Our zebra picking up some items at Trader Joe’s.

Collegiate Collegiality

For the first time in a long time, we had enough of the old college suitemates together to field a basketball team. (Our wives provided the competition.) Needless to say, we played some had a ball.

We’re apparently keeping a bimonthly (the every other month variety; not the twice-a-month kind) schedule for mini-reunions – here’s hoping that this is a trend that continues into this year and beyond.

Getting in some practice time

Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play!

Pasta, La Vis(i)ta

We patronized one of our favorite fast-casual restaurants tonight, where Olivia had noodles that were pan-fried and oodles of pin pride. (She insisted on wearing and displaying the button that included the First Daughters that I’d picked up for her at the inauguration.)

Poetic License

Our child took many liberties when interpreting a book of rhymes. My favorite part – besides the readings themselves, of course – was how she donned gloves when holding the book and turning its pages, as if she was handling an original copy of the Declaration of Independence.

Hope Dealer

I extend big props to Olivia’s teachers for taking some time today to watch the inauguration. Our daughter reported, "I saw Obama on TV with a microphone and he said, 'The world has to be with peace and honor and passion.'"

I was fortunate to hear that quote – or ones of that sentiment – in person. The confluence of willing friends, generous relatives, and workable flight times made the trip to DC possible. Yes, it was cold, but my bones will thaw in a week or two; the memories from being at such a historic event will remain with me forever.

Chilling (literally) with Khair

Khair and Bob – Capitol venturists

Our vantage point

Quip for a King

Our child continues to hold the Reverend in great reverence. On the holiday observing his birth, the mind space that Olivia already devotes to Dr. King seems especially energized.

To wit:

"Dr. King loves peace and America, so I’m going to decorate my cookies with red, white, and blue sprinkles."

"Dr. King passed away because he was shot by a man who had hate, not love. I told Sophia that we will always have God and Dr. King in our hearts."

Not-Hot Dog

No, that’s not the brand name of the faux frankfurter we occasionally nosh on, but rather the description of poor old Max after his owner forgot to bring him his doggie coat during a winter’s walk to the park.

Festival of Delights

Shouted from the backseat while driving around today:

"I want pencils! I want dreidels! I want to celebrate Hanukkah!!"

Back to the Drawing...

Bored, they’re not: Olivia and her friend Alyne insisted that they return to the arts corner of the children’s museum so that they could finish up their projects.

With Kid Gloves

A sign your house might be a wee drafty: your child insists on going to bed with her gloves on.

Lobster Clause

In an essay about the Maine Lobster Festival that he’d been commissioned to write, the late David Foster Wallace asked, quite seriously, that we consider the lobster. I’m not sure what the editors of Gourmet magazine were expecting when they’d hired Wallace, but what they and readers got was an exhaustive inquiry into the ethics of boiling an animal alive. Now I know my daughter is starting to read, but I’m thinking she’s still a bit young for tackling Wallace’s dense prose. (We’ll probably wait until she’s five.) Every time we pass the lobster tank at our local grocery megastore, though, Olivia does something that makes me wonder if and how Wallace got in her head.

She insists that we make a wide, semicircle route around the lobster tank, for spotting the ruddy crustaceans crammed in the tank, their fate that of the dinner plate, is enough to make our empathic child cry.