I was being so good.  I had filled up my plate with a cup of healthy fruit.  I was letting others direct the conversation.  Maybe I was finally getting the hang of being a member of society.

Enjoying my dinner, I listened to the conversation around me.  12-year-old Jacob was lobbying his mother for more fruit.  His mom argued that he should leave enough fruit for everyone else.  I continued munching away in silence.

Jacob continued his protest.  “I’m a growing boy.” Then pointing at my plate, “Look at how much fruit Dad took.  He’s a dieting man.” I was good.  I continued eating.  I stayed above the fray.  Charlene’s face however was full of shock. She had misunderstood the words of her son.  Charlene thought Jacob was already planning my exit and had labeled me “a dying man.”

Just goes to show how everything falls apart, when I am well behaved at dinner.  Now, please pass the fruit.  Apparently, I don’t have much time left.

Gleefully typing at work, I noticed a slight “stick.” A bit of something messing with my rhythm.  After a few more words, I found the culprit.  It was the “B” key.  It was sticking.  It was a sticky B.  Or to take maximum rhyming advantage, it was a “Sticky ‘B’ Key.”

I contemplated what to do.  Trooper on with a sticky B key?  Request a new keyboard from work’s Replacement Keyboard Department (one of the smaller departments at work)?  Avoid the letter B in all future correspondence?  “Dave, this is a fine memo, but I notice that it lacks any words containing the letter B.”

Soon my mind however wandered to a larger question, why was it sticking?  Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe the crumb strewn keyboard in the photo below contains a clue.

Time to stop eating snacks at my desk B-fore another letter falls victim to my bib needing self.  That appears to B the less sticky way to go.

Last Fall, our 3^rd Grader Sam won a can of pop in class. I forget what he answered correctly or did, but oh was he proud. The reason we have forgotten was because it was so long ago. The problem is that Sam does not drink pop, but he was so proud and he insisted on keeping it cold in the refrigerator, in the event that he decided to ever celebrate his success.

Time passed. The soda remained. We moved. The soda moved with us. Leftovers were purged. The soda survived.

Last week, Sam was surveying the fridge for a snack and saw his prize soda. Looking on the bottom of the can, he saw a “Best By” date of May 26. Gasp! The sacred prize soda was about to spoil. We tried explaining to Sam that the “Best By” date was not an “Expiration Date” and that if he drank it by the end of May, he would be fine. Sam sort of believed us.

Behold, the dreaded “Best By” date.

Earlier tonight, as bedtime approached, Sam remembered his beverage with a sense of urgency. It was May 31, tomorrow was June. Not only would the beverage pass its May 26 “Best By” date, it was about to exceed its extension. Obviously only one solution remained, finish the beloved drink.

Telling Sam to sit at the counter, he cradled his prize. Opening the can, he looked at me and asked, “Would you like the first drink?” Wow! What a great honor. Thank you, Sam. As I finished my sip, Sam eyed me closely, “How was it?” That’s when it struck me. This was no honor, Sam had me perform the role of royal taster. If I survived the “Best By” expired beverage, he would then partake. Well son, no need to worry, your old man will live another day, even though I have long exceeded my “Best By” date.

“Grapette,” which I believe is also known as the “Finest Name in Generic Soda.”

As I finished up this evening’s dishes, my 12-year-old son Jacob entered the kitchen with a message.

“Mom needs you.” Gosh, thanks for all of the details.

Knowing better than to ask for lots of additional information from the preteen, I responded with the basics. “Where is she?”

Beginning to walk away, he responded, “She’s in the garage…” and then with a perfectly timed emphasis and a pretend expression of concern, he added, “with a bucket and a chain.” Then he bounded off to places unknown.

Meeting my lovely bride in the garage, I saw her working on some hanging baskets. That’s when I smiled.

My son had pulled off a perfectly timed and cleverly spontaneous joke. A beautiful piece of whit.  A boy, who made me proud.  To borrow from Maz Kanata in Star Wars: Episode VII, if you live long enough, you see the same sense of humor in different people, and in my boy I saw myself.  Live long and prosper, young smarty pants.

BANANA CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

“These tasty morsels are crazy simple to make.  Plus, only three ingredients.  Amazing!  A yummy cookie that only takes three ingredients?  Sign me up!

As added bonuses, they are fairly healthy and they are delightful, as a breakfast alternative.  Enjoy!”

2 Ripe Bananas

1 cup Quick Cooking Oats

1/4 cup Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mash the bananas.

Add the oats and chocolate chips.  Stir to combine.

Drop Tablespoon size balls of dough onto parchment paper lined baking sheets.

Bake for 15 minutes.

Makes about 16 cookies.

Revised Source:  “Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Breakfast Cookies” recipe on blog.myfitnesspal.com.

This variety substitutes Mini M&Ms for chocolate chips.  Winning!

Normally, a trip out to lunch at work is a nice break.  A little something to break up the routine.  A chance to get away.  A near death experience.  Wait, what?  I shall tell…

It was a typical Friday lunch hour at work.  Plans were made to head out for pizza.  We wandered to a co-worker’s car.  A Prius.  A vehicle of environmental responsibility.  A vehicle of death.  Wait, what?  I shall tell…

Four co-workers headed to lunch.  The electrical vehicle of silence awaited.  Yes, silent, but deadly (too easy a reference to resist…  apologies from my 12-year-old self).  The perfect vehicle for an assassin.  Wait, what?  I shall tell…

Entering the rear door, behind the driver’s seat.  I saw a paper on the floor.  I reached down to move the document, as my co-workers sat in their places.  I lowered my right leg into the car.  Then suddenly and without warning, the car lurched forward.  Wait, what?  I shall tell…

The other two passengers yelled to the driver, “Stop!” and “He’s not in the car, yet.” As for me, I had no time to yell.  No words to break the silence.  Just thoughts of my own mortality, as the car lurched forward again.  I feared the worst, as I imagined my life being crushed beneath the rolling rear tire.  Wait, what?  I shall tell…

Then in an ungraceful act of desperate self preservation, I flung my frame into the moving car.  The would be apparent act of workplace assassination had failed.  I would work another day.  Another day that I would not take for granted.  You waited and I did tell, workplace exaggerations and all.

You see, the problem is that when you leave me alone with my 7-year-old son Ben, you are really just leaving me alone with a carbon copy of myself.

No check on the squirrelly tendencies.  No safe guard against the silliness.  No drop of common sense between us.

Two versions of the same person flying without a net.

“Ben, what would you like to do now?” Dairy Queen?  Well, yes.  I happened to be thinking the same thing.  Imagine that.

My diet never really stood a chance.

Me with me.  Scary how that can be.

My 12-year-old son Jacob’s socks resting on his bed.  Safe and sound under the watchful eye of Kirby the Guard Dog supreme.

Thank you, Kirby.  We all feel much safer now.

The unanticipated anxiety of baseball.  Watching your son pitch.

The unanticipated anxiety of life.  Watching your son grow.

Hoping he does well.  Hoping it turns out okay.  Hoping that his hard work pays off.  Watching him pitch.

Knowing that some days he will get knocked around.  Knowing that on other occasions, his off speed pitch will be spot on.

A child pitching.  A perfect Spring day.  A thing of beauty.

Baseball, as in life, is a series of ups and downs.  It is a long season.  God willing, it is also a long life.   Knowing that you tried your best.  That is a well of pride and a source of sustenance to help you through.

Hoping he does well.  Hoping it turns out okay.  Hoping that his hard work pays off.  Watching him grow.

Knowing that he will experience defeat.  Knowing that he will have his heart broken.  Knowing that sadness is unavoidable.  Knowing that success will also be his.  Knowing that he will embrace opportunities that we have yet to even imagine.  Knowing that his potential is limitless and it is your blessing to watch it unfold.

Baseball is special, so is life.  Embrace those long Summer nights, they are a gift.  Just like life.

My silly boy enjoying a post-game sandwich with dad.  My silly boy, my pride, my boundless joy to behold.

Losing the game wasn’t the worst thing.  Nope.  The worst thing was being completely covered in dirt.  Dust covering your body.  Filth all over.  Every pore filled with a fine grit.

Nope, losing wasn’t the worst part.  I do however know what we’ll be covering during the next practice, “The benefits of not causing a Dust Bowl with your cleats.”

There was a reason that you rarely saw Pigpen playing baseball with the rest of the Peanuts gang.