The Magnificent Seven

Yesterday was Hollis’ birthday. He turned seven. We served out our birthday sentence at Gattitown and then returned to finish celebrating in the relative peace and quiet of our home. I’ve noted this elsewhere before, but if by some cruel joke I go to Hell after I die, I most certainly will be forced to be the Gattitown / Chuck E. Cheese ticket redeemer throughout all eternity.

Step right up, young man. Let’s see ... you have 1723 tickets ... what would you like to get first? 

        (insert 3.7 minute wait for decision to be made) ...

Ah yes ... the random golf ball-sized squishy thing that looks a bit like a sea urchin ... OK, you have 1698 tickets left. What next?

        (insert 5.2 minute wait for decision to be made) ...

And for another 25 tickets, the funny teeth insert ... leaving you 1673 tickets.

        (insert 7.9 minute wait) ...

How about this pack of cards? It’s 1675 tickets but I’ll throw in two from my stash in the back and you’ll be totally set.

        (insert 13.4 minute wait as punishment for encouraging efficiency) ...

Of course ... the pencil eraser for 10 tickets ...

        (And on ... and on ... and on ...)

Anyway, despite having only two positive RSVPs the night before (summer birthdays are always a crapshoot in terms of party attendance), the Fates smiled on Master Hollis and seven kids showed up. The triplets from down the street were none too happy to hear that Alison (Hollis’ presumed future wife, pictured at left) was going to be there. Hollis was incredulous. It was as though his brain, quite correctly, could not possibly comprehend how anyone could find Alison to be anything other than dead solid perfect. I happen to think that the triplets are just in denial.

Seems like just yesterday (or a million years ago ... I can’t always tell which) that I was driving like Ricky Bobby on the frontage road, trying to get Paige to the hospital so that I wouldn’t have to make an impromptu pit stop and handle the job myself. Luckily for everyone concerned, traffic was kind and we made it with time to spare ... six minutes, to be exact, from the time the automatic doors closed behind us until he was chilling in the baby tray. Seven years, a root canal, a cranial surgery (to “fix” his Chiari 1 malformation) and numerous random golf ball-sized, sea urchin-esque squishy things later, he is every bit as cool.

And so it goes.