Who's Who of Q's Two

You don't realize how lucky you are until you throw a party and people actually show up. I have actual party anxiety because in college I could throw a rager and all I had to do is kick open my front door and yell "I've got three-day-old, warm, flat keg beer!" Within minutes the place would be grinding and vomiting and I'd feel like I was the coolest guy around. Nowadays my last-minute party plans often fall flat. There's something about packing up the kids for an evening of keg stands that hasn't stood the test of time. However, I now have a secret ingredient. It's Q. After all the presents were opened, the candles blown out, and the forty-some people filed out of the house, I confided to Sarah that I must pass the torch. Quin not only pulled in one heck of a crowd--even single, childless people!--but even after we said, "no gifts," he got great gifts. People must have taken it for reverse psychology, or perhaps they think we're emotionally abusive louts.

Q already upsetting ladies by paying more attention to guitar.

One of our favorite gifts makes no noise. Although the fire truck is cool and the Wiggles guitar is clearly Q's top priority right now (which begs this serious side note: Daniel and Ruth Anne, I'm sorry for whatever we did to have you bring that into our house), I believe it is the homemade cape that will stand the test of time. Here is a picture below. The pic is linked to the site of the cape's maker, a woman who's managed to turn her obsessive compulsions into creative endeavors. Her crafts are so much cooler than just very clean hands.


Now I'm going to admit the kind of thing that has social services starting up their van: I already have a cape. Or at least my alter ego does. So this is so cool, I'll even be the sidekick.

Quin takes oath of superherodom.

So thank you everybody for coming over. We thought the party was perfect, except for one minor oversight. Despite a Costco cart worthy of an anti-American propaganda video at a terrorist convention, we forgot to feed Quin. We had trays of fruit and pounds of meat. My sister even made a cake in the shape of a pickle.

And while Sarah and I regaled each other with the day's activities, we questioned one another as to who had taken the time to feed our son. That would be neither of us. He did get a handful of frosting, I recalled, but from his two or three bites of lunch to his bed time just after eight, he had nothing of substance. Now I could dwell on the negative aspects on a malnutritioned child, and I know some negative people will, or I could point out that the party was so great that food was of no consequence. Now that's a magical day.

Happy Birthday!

Otto tore it up.