Coca-Cola and Lucky Strikes

We got a new camera about a week ago. I still haven't taken the time to figure out how to upload our pictures. Maybe I can add that to my My Word, Why Haven't I Taken Care of That Yet list for the weekend.

I managed to finish Heath's tractor pants and Stella's nightgown. Don't anyone look too closely. My stitching gets a little wacky-do here and there. Oh well. They are going to be thrilled with their new duds. I'll take pictures. And upload them. One day.

Heath is really just a 42 year old single (because he says he won't have time to have a girlfriend. Too much work to do.) man who works in construction, stuck in the body of a three and a half year old. Throughout the week he has dropped little pieces of information regarding plans for what he will do with his time when he gets older. One most recent obsession is the drinking of the Coca-Cola. No one in this house drinks soda, or soft drinks, or pop, depending on your word flavor, but my mom (HeHe) and Grandma have certainly been known to show up at our house with a red and white can of the cola. Heath is ever-intrigued about the forbidden liquid that awaits his taste buds when he's older.

This week he asked me exactly when he could have it, when he spotted the Coke truck heading down Tyvola Rd., about a mile away. Twelve was the age I gave. Totally arbitrary, but it satisfied him.

Later that same day, we'd just finished our baby jogging, and he'd been set free to roam Whistlestop Rd. Tucked between the cracks of sidewalk squares, Heath spotted a stubbed out cigarette. He hunkered down to point to it, and I could tell it was all he could do to keep from picking it up. After a minute, he stood up, put his hands on his hips, and made a declaration about his future.

When I'm twelve, I'm going to drink Coca-Cola and put cigarettes in my mouth and smoke them like this, he did a surprisingly dead-on imitation of someone smoking. (And I would like to thank the guys he saw wandering around NoDa for Heath's accuracy.)

I immediately went on a verbal rampage, blind with worry, about the dangers of smoking, the disgusting, expensive, not good at all habit. (I left out the part about being a former smoker myself. He's got plenty of time to hear that chapter of the story.) The more I seethed and fretted and tried to talk him out of smoking, the more he seemed to want to smoke. For the next hour, he would refer to cigarettes and smoking, and I would freak out.

And then he stopped and moved on to something else. Phew. Crisis averted.