Behold, the Caleb of myth and legend

It finally happened. This morning I opened his door to find him standing in the middle of his Little People toys. He was holding something black between his fingers. "What do you have there sweet boy?" I asked him. My glasses have had some serious problems recently. A few weeks ago, Kara asked if she could tighten the little screws that hold it together and, for some "Dad" reason, I said yes. We fished the tiny screwdriver from my toolbox and, after a quick refresher on the "righty-tighty" rule, I set her loose. Thing is, she didn't quite get the rule. Next thing I know, my glasses are in pieces. And, further than that, somehow I lost one of the earpieces. Think of a three-legged stool, or a three-legged cat. That's what my glasses look like now. I kind of stick-slash-balance them on my nose when I'm driving, and otherwise they live in my pocket. Anyway, I certainly didn't have them on this morning when I was squinting to see what Caleb had pinched between his fingers.

It was a spider.

I smacked it down from his hands--he cried, of course, so I picked him up to console him and give him kisses. Then I fished the carcass, its legs folded in on itself, from the carpet and put it in the toilet.

You may remember that Hercules also had a tangle with a nasty when he was a baby. Several snakes--it could have been one, but I think it was several, slithered into the crib of the young hero during the night. He grabbed the snakes and killed them. So I guess that's it, then, my son is a mythical hero. Aaaaawwww.

Pet's-a-Go Go

Papa found it in the filter of his swimming pool. Who knows how it got there. I think a bird dropped it. It could have come from a nearby creek. Either way, L and the kids took one look at it, Caleb said, "Gogo!," and we had a new pet, a chrysemys scripta elegans, a red-eared slider . . . a turtle. It has completely altered the daily habits of our home.

First of all, it gets L. out of bed. Or at least it did. The first few days Gogo was with us, L. was worried he (or she) might die. A few times when Gogo was settling in to sleep submerged safely in the watery corner of his tank, she tapped on the glass until he--annoyed--opened one eye or both. "Whew, he's not dead." she'd say. This anxiety motivated her to get up in the morning and check him. "I see he's okay," she'd say, and then watch him for awhile. That leads to the second change.

We watch Gogo constantly. Gogo's tank is positioned strategically in what amounts to the most-observed square foot plot in our entire apartment, believe it or not right above the kitchen sink (a respectable distance for those of you who think "What if we drop a plate into the tank?" or for those of you with a dark side, "What if Gogo should fall into the garbage disposal?"). What that means is that watching Gogo is an activity that requires merely a flick of the eyes or a turn of the head from almost any position. The result is that you always know what he's doing. He could be swimming on the left. He could be swimming on the right. Gogo might be putting his nose out of the water, exploring his rocky beach head, or even sleeping. Whatever it is, you know it. It is vitally important that you know it. I caught myself getting up out of a chair and turning full around yesterday just to update the Gogo-Twitter in my head.

I should also mention the intense desire to give Gogo things. He hasn't been in his tank a week, and I want to put some live plants in there. L. bought him some different kinds of food. One of these are live meal worms in a little white cup with a lid. We keep it in the fridge. It is only a matter of hours before we purchase a filter and spend a few more hours moving everything around to accomodate it. Our whole world has gone a-go-go. And, you know, it is kind of fun.