Thursday, December 12, 2013

Day Five-Ninety-Four: Fly, ugly bird, fly

I'll let this exchange speak for itself.

"Hey, there, Fynny boy." I'd found him buried headfirst in the snow, as usual. "You gotta put your clothes on, Fynn, how many times do I have to tell ya? C'mon, you love your mitts."

"Dah! Daabha! Bbbbrrprorpollbbb!" He emerged with a giant snow beard.

"Ha ha! You look like 'ol Cannonbottom, rest he well in a Non's belly. Here, here, let's cover that big boy's belly you got. Put your coat on."

"Aaaaapoof!" Fynn leaped away into the snow, one mitt on, one mitt flying.

"Hey! Get back here, you rascal!" Pursuit. "I'm gonna get yoooou ackkbbhgh, ha ha ha! Damn that's cold. Fynn, get back here!"

"Eeeeeeeee! Cun cat maaaaa! Thnow, thnow!"

"Now I gotcha, you vagabond! Not fast enough to escape your old man, eh? Not half old enough yet! Get that coat on 'fore your mamma skins me! C'mon, stop flailing your arms, that's my -"



Laughing so hard that his cheeks had gone rosy red, Fynn grabbed both ends of my breastplate and heaved me into the air, over his head. He danced around with the slightest bit of effort, waving me about as though I were an ugly, ugly bird taken flight.


He threw me into a snow pile. My son's laughter echoed loudly enough to bring a large group of spectators.

"What's the matter, Dragomir?" Grylock yelled. "Get beat up by yer brat? Real dignified, eh!"

"You shut up!" I yelled back. "Everyone, back to work! Pffffft! Damned... ack, snow... damned Dauphine won't undig itself!"

Eventually, Fynn settled down. The slightest bit chilled after being knee-deep in the snow in his diaper and nothing else, he went inside. Last I saw, he'd cuddled up with Libby at her workstation and gone to sleep.

This kid. This kid's gonna be the death of me.


Dragomir the Wanderer

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