Devil Juice

Halen's second birthday passed successfully earlier this week with nary a sign of the looming "terrible two's." Parents talk about said phase of toddler-dom, but we've been lucky enough to have yet to experience it. I'd like to claim it's the result of able and expert parenting, but it's not. In fact, given my contribution to our kids' upbringing, it's a wonder they're not psychopaths. Or shop-lifters. Or Napster users.

Just this evening I was drinking a Coke with dinner. "What're you drinking?" Savannah asked.

"Devil juice," I responded.

"What's devil juice?" Savannah demanded, the beginnings of panic welling in her eyes. Shannon shot me "the look," so I back-pedalled.

"I meant 'bevelled juice,'" I lamely explained to Savannah.

"Oh... what's 'bevelled'?" Savannah wondered.

"Um... see the edge of this table? It's not sharp, it's bevelled. Bevelled is the opposite of sharp."

"Yes," Shannon added. "It's not a sharp drink, it's a soft drink. It's bevelled."

Clearly confused, but unwilling to remain a part of our boring conversation any longer, Savannah gracefully bowed out with an unconvinced "Oh."

That's what kind of parent I am. Yet, in spite of me, my kids are perfect little angels. Usually. Sometimes. Occasionally. Well, perhaps I should drop the "perfect" and just stick with "little angels."

For Halen's birthday bash, we took the kids to Mecca Mall to play on the massive play area that dominates the 4th and 5th floors of the structure. Savannah and Halen scurried through the nearly-empty tunnels and slides while Grace did was Grace does best: she slept. And ate. And burped. That sounds a lot like my life, too.