This Guy

Nope, it's not Jackson's birthday.

It's just that poor old Jax never gets any airtime on the blog.

{Except perhaps in an occasional cameo as a foster child}.

Case in point--I never even posted about his killer laser tag birthday party from last May.


I also bet you didn't know that his basketball team won the championship game for their age division in the Phoenix Suns arena. Of course you didn't.

Occasionally he'll read my blog or have suggestions as to what I should put on it.

THIS post was his idea. THIS post was NOT his idea.

Tonight I was browsing through hundreds of photo files and was struck by these handsome photos of my only son.

The son who makes his bed first thing every single morning without being asked or threatened.

(his sisters don't).

He is so good to his sisters when some days

he has every excuse to give them a sound wholloping.
He is usually drowning in a sea of girlish drama.
Trademark quote: "Good thing I got dear old dad."


His sense of humor is dry.
He is a sports nut. (like his dad).
He wants to play college football. (like his dad).
He has awesome Tobler ears. (like his dad).
He plays a mean piano and baritone.

His heart is kind and good.
Now I am sounding like a certain aunt who we used to make fun of for bragging about her kids ad nauseum.
Too bad.
No apologies.

Lucky to know this guy.

confessional

I may or may not have slightly played up a recent sinus infection so I could justify abdicating my duties as a parent to read in bed all day.  I drove Charlotte to preschool in my bathrobe.

To be fair, the day started with a sinus headache that hurt like stink. I had the good doctor call in a z-pak. I was just yucked-up enough to not be totally miserable, yet not feeling sprightly enough to feel like doing anything productive.  I love self-mandated bedrest for a day.

lovely.

now that's what I call a stimulus package

a love litmus test:

Driving down the strip in Las Vegas.

a two-night getaway.

I see BARRY MANILOW flashing on the marquis sign.
A neon beacon.

I whip my head around to make sure it wasn't a mirage.

I think I might need the paddles. Heartrate stabilizes.

I tell McHopingIDidn'tSeeTheSign that I'm embarrassed at how excited I feel.

At the mere prospect of singing along to "Mandy".
Or whistling the intro to "Can't Smile Without You."
I honestly don't know what it is about that androgynous sap that I love so much.
I just know that I love him.

All at once, my entire Junior High choreography/lip synch career rewinds into vivid memory.

Betsy's dad's huge video camera capturing hours of various "dance" versions of Copacabana on horrifying video.

I got the "go ahead" resigned look.
Proof positive that he loves me.

We call for tix.

Sold out.

{Except for the $390 per seat scalped tix}.

Spit.

Marc was secretly relieved to retain his masculinity. And basic self-respect.

No having to endure the taunts of my brothers.
The same brothers (most likely Gavin) who scratched my Barry Manilow ONE VOICE album with a car key.
Rendering it unplayable on my Sanyo turntable.
[The desired result.]

That's OK . I've been promised a trip back to Vegas soon.

Just for Barry.