Jackspeak

ALERT: Jackspeak

I love music lessons with my boys. Tonight, while folding laundry, we’re going old school with a little Frampton Comes Alive! (Do You Feel Like We Do?, of course.)

Jack: “Is Peter Frampton dead?”

Me: “No.”

“So, is he really old?”

“Well… he’s older. He’s kind of a rock legend.”

“If he was dead, he’d be a real legend.”

“They have a name for legends who are still living. They call ’em ‘living legends.'”

“And if he was dead, he’d be a dead legend.”

“Right.”

Jackspeak

ALERT: Jackspeak

I’ve been away from this space for awhile, busy with a new work-related/writing-related project that I’m excited to share soon. (Not sure I’ve ever mentioned before that I work here. It's way cool.) Haven’t had enough time to share much on the blog, which makes me sad. However, Jack and Charlie certainly haven’t been slacking on the –talks and –speaks. So today, a Jackspeak.

. . . . .

Many already know that we’re a vegetarian family—me for 17 years, Jack and Charlie since birth. But we’ve slowly been taking a turn toward veganism. It’s been a fun experiment, and it’s been an easier switch than either Brett or I thought it would be. (Although I’m still not sure I can forever say goodbye to store-bought birthday cakes or Pizza Hut. We’ll see.)

Anyway, we’ve always talked a lot about where our food comes from. A few nights ago, Jack experienced an a-ha moment.

Jack: “You know, they shouldn’t call them ‘hot dogs.’ They should call them ‘hot pigs.’ Because they’re made from pigs.”

Me: “That does seem to make more sense, doesn’t it?”

“And veggie dogs shouldn’t be called ‘veggie dogs.’ They should be called ‘veggie pigs.’ Not because they’re made out of pigs . . . just because now the pig kind of hot dogs—I mean hot pigs—are called hot pigs. And it would be weird to call them ‘veggie dogs’ if we called the pig kind of hot dogs ‘hot pigs.’

“Makes crystal-clear sense to me, kid.”

Charlietalk

ALERT: Charlietalk

I’m telling Bretty about a dream I had. An unusually large cat and an even bigger dog were charging a deer in our backyard. The deer stood frozen, helpless against the angry pair. Charlie’s listening in on the story.

Bretty: “Weird dream.”

Me: “Yeah, it was bizarro.”

Charlie: “I didn’t see that deer.”

Me: “It was in my dream.”

“Your dream?”

“Yes. It was just in my head, bean.”

“In your head?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mean in your hair?”

‘No, I mean in my mind . . . in my imagination. When I was sleeping.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. But the next time that happens, I want to see that deer. You have to show me. You have to pick me up and take me with you so I can see.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”