Is Mr. Met My Godfather?

Last evening my son told me “Daddy, I love you more than [I love] Spiderman.”

Wow.  That’s saying something.

I quickly replied: “Son, I love you more than [I love] gin.”

Speaking of the funny things kids come out with, I thought I’d share this beauty with you.  It’s another quiet morning in our house.  It’s mid-December now and our weekend has just been extended by another day due to an ice storm in North Texas.  If you’re keeping score, that’s Friday and Monday we’ve had off.  True, we’ll all probably be back at work/school tomorrow; but let’s consider the date (December 9th) for a second.  We will be heading into semester exams next week and then off for two weeks for Christmas.  After that we have a three day weekend for Martin Luther King, another one for Presidents Day, Spring Break, and Easter, then it’s May.  So, you see, the school year is practically over.  Therefore I plan on enjoying every minute of my time off — especially since my kids are home with me.

I woke up this morning because someone (who shall remain nameless; but he’s my only son) decided to come into my room, leap onto my bed, and pretend to be affectionate.  It was a rouse to get me to turn on a TV show for him.  Needless to say, I got out of bed, turned on his show (a ghastly thing about a group of anthropomorphic dogs rescuing people), and went to my recliner in the family room.  I switched on the morning news and tried to go back to sleep.  Just as my eyes were about to close my son appeared before me.

“Daddy?  Is my sister’s godfather Mr. Met?”

See, Daddy, this guy?

See, Daddy, this guy?

My eyes opened.  He was holding a whole bunch of New York Mets paraphernalia in his arms.  I was very confused.  I mean, I like the Mets.  I’ve tried to pass this on to my kids (despite their maternal grandfather having been a Yankees fan).  You see, I want my kids to grow up knowing the value of suffering.  Either way, I don’t think I would have ever been drunk enough to make their baseball-headed mascot my daughter’s godfather.

“No, son, Mr. Met is not her godfather,” I said,  “Although, that would be AWESOME!”  He looked at me in total sincerity and said “But Granny said he is.”  And I was just beginning to think that his sister was teasing him by trying to make him jealous.  I was also beginning to wonder why I hadn’t named Mr. Met the godfather to either of my children.  Could you imagine how brilliant that would be?  “Granny?” I said.  “Yes, Daddy,” he replied.  I assured him Mr. Met was not his sister’s godfather and he left the room.

Moments later my mother-in-law entered.  “Now I am confused,” she said.  “I swear I thought he was her godfather.”  I scratched my head as if to non-verbally ask if I was in a parallel universe and replied “Huh?”  She stopped dead in her tracks and said “Isn’t Theresa’s husband, Matt, your daughter’s godfather?”  I confirmed that he is.  And then I realized…  Today is my sister’s birthday.  She is my son’s godmother.  This must have lead to a discussion of who their godparents are while they were sitting around the counter having breakfast with their Granny.  See, they know who their godmothers are (two of my sisters) but they always seem to have trouble remembering the godfathers.  My mother-in-law, falling back on an old Southern pleasantry, must have responded to my daughter that her godfather is “Mr. MATT”.  Thanks to a slight Texas accent, the husband of a friend of my wife just became the mascot for New York’s National League ball club.  I’m sure he’s thrilled considering he’s a Red Sox fan.

Advertisements

One response to “Is Mr. Met My Godfather?

  1. He has certainly been called worse! :). He loves his little goddaughter very much too.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s