Adopting George

When we went to the Montgomery County Fair in Texas a couple of months ago, Son #2 wanted to win a giant stuffed banana with dreadlocks. Can you blame him? I let him try a couple of times until it dawned on me that idiot mama (i.e., me) would have to carry that thing through the airport or, worse yet, check it like luggage and pay an extra baggage fee. Nu-uh. Not me. He was crushed.

Fast forward to this past Friday night at our local carnival. The kids and I were casually meandering through the game tents when Son #2 shrieked and took off like a bat out of hell.

Yep, giant bananas (of the hairless variety). He tried to win one, as did Son #1 and I, but none of us won the game. (Hmmm. Odds stacked against us? At a carnival? Shocking.)

Later, we found a game where everyone is a winner. It was simply a giant bucket stationed approximately one foot away. The kids each got a fist-sized ball and threw it in. Unless you’re Michael J. Fox, you cannot lose. Both kids selected plastic, old west, cowboy style pistols with a bag of marble sized bullets. What better to shoot in my car on the drive home?

Needless to say, before leaving, and after many, many games (goodbye college funds), Son #2 looked a bit unhappy. He had to go back and get that banana; it had his name on it. So back we went. And, because everything that kid touches is gold, he won. Even the carnie did a bit of a double-take.

Son #2 immediately grabbed his new giant banana, hugged it and named it George. Then he grabbed his gun, pointed it at the banana’s forehead and said loudly to the watching crowd, “nobody move or I shoot the banana.”

As we walked through the carnival the remainder of the night, Son #2 was flogged by other aspiring banana-owners. “Dude, I spent like $50 trying to win that banana. How did you do it?” Son #2 nonchalantly played it totally cool, “It was easy.” The level of admiration received from other 8-15 year old boys was unreal. I felt like I was hanging with somebody famous.

We have now welcomed a new, highly coveted banana/scratching post into our family.

The ride home. (I hope George is old enough to ride in the front seat. He didn’t come with a birth certificate.)

Reenacting the dramatic hostage crisis in the driveway.

Surprising daddy, Godfather style, upon his arrival home after a late night gig.

And, not to overlook my first and other love, Son #1’s new killer, blowup baseball bat.