Wednesday, March 24, 2010

The times they are a changing


I found this record describing a night at the Blue heron Arts theatre when our son was just a babe in arms. Last weekend, he was one of the cats on stage for a Celtic celebration and get together. Oh what difference 5 years makes.


Mom and dad have been talking about getting rid of my pacifier of late. Fat chance. They obviously don’t appreciate how much fun I have with that thing, not to mention the attention. To illustrate my point, I have to take you back to last winter when my shell shocked parents tried to have a night out with me in tow. Dad has a funny penchant for diddly diddly music that sounds like a big bag full of cats tearing each other apart in an echo chamber. Mom and me suffer in silence, but when he’s out, we turn up the heavy metal and head bang on the springy wood floor in the dining room, but I digress. When we got to the Blue Heron Theatre, the cats were in full swing while the audience of other musically challenged adults were keeping time to the noise by stamping their feet like demented flooring contractors. Dad popped the plug into my mouth to keep me quiet. As if my squawking would detract from the noise coming from the stage. After a few minutes of watching the show, I started to wonder how far I could get a pacifier to fly. With a practiced ease, I arched my head back and let fly with a loud Ptuii. The sticky silicon blob arched over the heads of the people in front of us and landed on the floor, between two elderly ladies. The first flight only caused a small disturbance as Mom and Dad embarrassedly thanked the ladies in front for passing the offending object back to the launch pad. Dad wiped it with his hanky and plugged it back in, muttering dire threats of retribution if I didn’t behave. “Oh yeah? You and who’s army!” The second launch caused a bit more of a stir, as the pacifier landed on the wooden floor at a lull in the proceedings. All heads turned in the direction of Mom and Dad, who by now were glowing so red you could have plugged them into the national grid. The band was oblivious of this sudden shift in attention, as people around the landing site all tried to locate the missile. It was duly found and returned to my parents, who by now were embarrassed to the point of wanting to emigrate at the first opportunity. Mom removed me from the shaking hands of my dad and popped the projectile back into my mouth with words to the effect that any further transgressions would not be appreciated. By now, all attention had shifted from the bag of cats on the stage to the 3rd row in the corner, next to the exit, i.e. me. Some folks were even positioning themselves for the catch, as many in the audience twisted themselves to follow the antics. I was on full form. Not wanting to disappoint my new found admirers, I spat the pacifier clean over the top of the row behind us and bounced it off the wall. It landed in the lap of an excited lady who held it up to show her trophy, much to the delight of the audience, who by now had abandoned any pretext at listening to the cats on stage. As the howling and diddly dee ground to a halt for the interval, I took the opportunity of falling asleep so I wouldn’t have to sign any autographs. I think my dad must have used my pacifier later that night as the tell tale stress bites were clearly visible. We haven’t had any discussions about pacifiers for some time.

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