"Rocket Butt Dude"

This guy came floating through a while ago:

He's sort of a rootin', tootin', gunslinging, happy-faced, pillbox-hat-wearing, rocket-butt-dude.  N actually made this guy and that is what he called him: "a rocket butt dude."

I don't think he is a fweelie, with their telltale wheeled feet, nor do I think he is one of those rainbow-robot-dudes, although I think they might be in the same genus.  He's new I think.

I am not sure if he has on a shirt with really poofy pink sleeves or whether those are pink eggplants strapped to his arms or if those are a part of his flying apparatus.  I am sure that those are blueberry revolvers there in his watermelon hands.  (This dude is a freak of intergalactic nature.)

That is a nice hat, nobody can argue that.


I am probably not going to be able to post with the frequency I had been able to when the boys were in school.  Honestly, I keep thinking they will be in school then realize they will have to go shopping with me, they will have to find something to do when I mow and do chores and they will have to stay out of my way when I clean (I am a bit of a whirlwindish dervish).

I am glad they are home though, seven-year-olds (and I say this about every age) are so freaking cute; little man-cubs, somewhere between Teddy Bears and baseball gloves, between Looney Tunes and Ninjago, between Teddy Grahams and nacho chips, between Christopher Robin and Geronimo Stilton, between dependence and independence.

It's got to be hard.  But, we will help them negotiate these uncertain times, help them define themselves, help them become the men I can begin to see more clearly now underneath the thin veneer of their skin, underneath where their souls pulse.

Because, sometimes, I can see the men these boys will become, and, honestly, I like what I am seein'.