Meeting of the Screamers

Schuyler and Rowan meet, in a cage match to the DEATH. Two enter, one leaves. No fish-hooking, biting or groin punches.


Ok for real. I doubt any of my regular viewers, the pulsating, frothy mob that you are, have read Darn Tootin, but it's been a staple for the Austin family for a few years now. The proprieter of the site is a family friend of Mrs. Austin and their roots go back to the days when men were men and women were in the Permian marching band. We'll call him Mr. Pollyana (heh) because I love making up names for people, and I think he'll appreciate that one. So Mr. P and his family recently moved back from the lovely state of Connecticut to our lovely city of Austin. I've been to Connecticut, and it is rather pleasant, as long as you're not there in any month besides June. The rest of the time it's, well, you know, cold. I'm all for cold, being a western yank me-self, but something about cold on the East Coast just gets in your bones. Must be the crappy Mexican food.

So it was destined, I suppose, that our two children should meet. I mean, they have virtually the same haircut. Hel-lo. Plus Lil Miss P probably needed a playmate, being new to the area, and Lil Miss Austin could ALWAYS use another underling to do her evil bidding. The chemistry seemed solid.

We were worried about how they'd get along. LMPs a little older than LMA and LMA is a wicked chat hound and task master when around her friends at school. The trepidation was high. However, once brought together, they acted like two toddler girls would under any circumstances.

They squeeled for 7 straight hours.

Now I'm not saying they screamed or horseplayed or got on each other's case for not sharing the baby or the pony or the swing, I mean that's how they talked, for what amounted to the length of 2 hockey games. It was funny and sweet and warm to see them chase each other around the house. One slams a door, squeels, the other runs away, squeeling. They peek around the corner at each other, catch eyes and, yep, squeel.

So we took the fun outside. We added a liberal mix of hyperkenetic and overly large beagle and a swing set and the noises became a mix of squeels and laughs. Leels. Squaughs. (Boy that's an odd one, love the English language.) Ok, Squafs. The two swung and slid and hung and scampered. At one point they would hide from the dog in the dog's house, because it's the last place a dog would look. When the dog found them they would squaf and flee like pigeons released from a captivity infested with army ants. Then they'd do it all over again, as fast as they could, which is funny because toddlers have really short legs so "fast" is relative. Sort of like "sudden geological change."

In our infinite wisdom as parents, we then decided to add some rocket fuel to the burning chemical labs and feed the children ice cream.

With chocolate syrup.

And sprinkles.

And thus the Crack Ferrets were born. Their adrenaline heightened by sugar, the pitch fevered, the two marines set out with only their stim packs to bring down the last remaining Zerg Hive. Bringing them back inside didn't help, but they did end up sitting still for a few minutes while Dora was on.

All in all it was a great day. It was fun having company over, meeting new people (for me) and the kids got to play and forge new alliances against the tyranny of the Adult Horde. (Notice how I think in video game? It's a sickness, please help me.)

Faster Fräulein! Ve must overtake ze Americans!

Ok, Abbot. This should really work.

In her best Ethel Merman opening bit...


Look ma, no adult supervision!



The universal language of ice cream.

I hold jour hand, jou think I'm sweet until I YANK you out of jour swing!

Swiper no swiping anymore blankets!

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